Mornings

I hear the door click shut and I start to panic. My scrambled eggs are a mess and I just realized I had put too much oil in the pan for the bacon.

I hear you whistling, and soon, your arms are around me, and you plant a kiss on my nape. I wriggle out of your embrace and shout, "stop it, I need to focus on your eggs!"

"I think my eggs are just fine," you say, looking over my shoulder to check the yellow blob on the frying pan. "Hmm. You want me to take over?"

"Please do, Love," I sigh with relief. I am out of sorts this morning. I had woken up later than usual.

You whisk the wooden spatula from my hand. "Ok, princess, sit down and watch me do some magic." I do as I'm told, and gladly, too. I watch as you fix the mess of a breakfast I had been trying to prepare. Quick and sure, you are also something of a god in the kitchen, I suppose.

"Had a good jog?" I hand you the pepper mill.

"Yes, Love, although I wish you'd come with me. I didn't have the heart to wake you up this morning. You were fast asleep. What kept you up last night?" Eggs done, you are now chopping garlic for the fried rice. I stare at your hands.

I tell you about my dream--people with faces but no names, all staring at me with hostility and censure. I tell you about how, in the dream, I knew who they were and yet didn't know them, at the same time. I tell you how, when I woke up, I was crying, and cried even more when I saw that you weren't beside me.

You pull me into your arms and kiss me on the forehead. "I'm sorry, Love. But hush, it's all over now. I'm taking you out today."

My face lights up. "You are? Where? Where?" I tug at your sleeve.

"There, on the porch." You throw the garlic into the oil, and I give you a whack on the butt. You laugh and I roll my eyes at you.

Soon, we are having breakfast outdoors. Bacon, eggs, your antics and daydreams, a view of the blue sea--just some of my favorite things on a lovely, mildly sunny morning. I take a sip from my coffee, your voice and the sound of crashing waves all mingling in my ears like the soundtrack to a perfect day.

Nights

Your face, lit by the pale glow of a candle--

I gasp and ask myself if anything could be more beautiful, if any other man could take my breath away like this. Nothing, no face or name comes to mind.

In this very moment, I am floating in a sea of music, and wine, and you. From across the table, you look at me, expectant yet steady--waiting for me to snap out of the spell I'm in, perhaps? I am smitten with you tonight, Love, like I always am. But tonight is special, if only because tonight is the newest night of our lives, and every hour with you is always better than the last.

My thoughts are wandering. I am oblivious to the drone of voices around us--are they even voices, or just a buzzing in my head?

What's on your mind tonight, Love? Your eyes are aglow. I am being pulled into you, like I always am, when you look at me like that.

Evenings

Elsewhere, it is twilight. Elsewhere, I hear your footfalls on the wooden planks that lead to our doorstep. My heart is fluttering with butterflies I can hardly contain.

Soon, the knob turns and I hold my breath. The door opens and I behold your leg, your shoulder, half your face, half your smile. I run toward you and leap into your arms, and my entire world becomes your embrace.

Elsewhere, we kiss like we had been apart for years, when I had just walked you to your car this morning.

Elsewhere, our lips part and you gently touch my chin to look into my eyes.

Elsewhere, I drown in bliss. Elsewhere, I have no thoughts of elsewhere.

Here, I teach myself, over and over, to let go.

I always end up waiting for you to come home.

Prayer

Teach me to walk away:
from what hurts me,
where I am not needed,
where I intrude,
where I am but shadow,
where I cause pain.

Teach me to turn my back
on the wait for what will never come.

Teach me to accept
what will never be.

Teach me to remember
what it feels like to be abandoned,
how it is to look down on myself,
what the self looks like in the mirror
of doubt and loneliness.

I have forgotten;
teach me again.

I thrash around my self-made net
of misery, my hands bleeding
from holding on--
Teach me to let go.

Teach me.

Variation on a Theme: Apollo's Lament

"In the heart

of the wood,

a god learns too late:

love transforms

never quite in one way."

- J. Neil C. Garcia, "Daphne and Apollo"

God of the sun, he
sees but half his light.

Half-blind from the glare of his own
sadness, he sees
only the certainty of her
shape--roots clawed in fear,
the absence of body
in the whorls of her length, stillness
amidst her shaking leaves:
formlessness in form,
trance in transformation.

Even as she sighs, it is
only the wind he hears, and not her
voice, whispering:
I love you enough to love
you my entire life;
I love you enough to love
you only as I am, silent and without
reproach;
I love you enough to know
that I can defy the desire
to possess;
I love you enough to give up
movement and sight.

Consumed by his loss,
he turns his back
and walks away, head bowed,
transfixed by the wreath
of her leaves.

Nights

Words elude me tonight, Love. I am filled only with prayer that your path and mind be lit with starlight and moonshine, that your thoughts be clear, and your heart be safe in the knowledge that it is loved.

The night is dark but the sun awaits.

And Love, you are my sun.

Close your eyes and drift to sleep.

I am here, always here.

Mornings

The sky is painted a certain shade of lonely today; the sun is sulking behind willing clouds.

I take a walk among the dunes, my bare feet cold against the despondent sand. The hem of my skirt is lined with stray twigs and my left heel feels tender from the scratch of a broken shell.

Everywhere, your silence resonates--the breeze, the noiseless shadows, the woeful waves all echo your absence.

I stop and look at the sea, listening as it chants your name again and again and again. I am wondering how you can be nowhere and everywhere, at the same time. How is this so, Love?

There is tumult in my heart, and so I recreate the sound of your laughter and the calm in your voice. I look for comfort in the memory of your face, the fire in your eyes, the light in your smile. It is never difficult to do these things--they are what I lean to when weariness comes. My love is entwined with sadness, and no sadness has been as beautiful, no love as all-engulfing.

I have known this, all along: I have no need to look for you in things, for you are everywhere, even as you are far away. I understand that the distance that takes you away is the same one that brings you near.

But what am I doing, trying to unravel this mystery, right this very moment? After all, you are the puzzle I would like to spend the rest of my life piecing together, the question I would like to keep asking. It matters little if I never found the answer.

I need only marvel at you to understand: your soul is the light that sets my being aglow. Nothing and no one has made me feel as alive as I am now, now that you have entered my world like the ray of light that you are.

I stare at the sea, safe in the quiet and constant faith that my love will bring you home someday.

Someday, my Love.

Someday.

Nights

"Look how the stars shine so tonight, Love, see how they illuminate the darkness. We still haven't decided on our constellation, but I know that our stars are out there, somewhere, waiting for us to find them."

You stir from where you're reclined, grazing the sand with your feet. You gaze sleepily at the heavens and whisper, "it's beautiful. This is beautiful," and flash a lazy, lovely smile at me. You are exhausted from the day's work, and I am torn between tucking you to bed and staying up just for a bit more, lying on the sand like this, your hand on my arm, the sound of your breathing mingling with the sound of the waves.

I sit up and lean to kiss the tip of your nose. I trace your left brow with my thumb and run my hand over your tousled head. "That feels nice," you say, "don't stop."

"Hadn't we better get going, Love?" I wish you would say no.

"Just a bit more," you mumble, squeezing my arm and slipping a hand into mine. As always, our minds are in sync, as always, we do not want to leave the sea.

"All right, Love. But you've got to get some real rest, soon. You're not as sturdy as Superman is, though you're just as handsome, I must say."

"I am sturdy as a tree and more handsome than Superman."

I giggle. "You're hopeless, and I love you." I lean my head against your shoulder and inhale your scent, feeling the rise and fall of your chest.

All these, that's all.

Because what you have done, Love, was to gift me with the discovery that I could go so much farther and do so much more.

Did you catch a glimpse of the sea in my eyes, I wonder. Did you hear the sound of the waves in my voice? Was there sunlight in my gaze? Was it golden, like the sunrise, or muted, as dusk is?

Did you know I loved to climb trees when I was little, and that I would take a book with me to read on some sturdy branch? Were you privy to my dreams, so that you knew of the enchantment I would find underneath wisteria-wrapped bowers? Did you watch as I lay dreaming, did you see yourself in my dreams?

You were a hand that had unlocked my hidden doors--how did you know that when you entered my life, it was the perfect time to do so?

Did you know you would make me sad in so many ways, but that my losses and sorrows have made me strong enough to withstand those little waves?

Did you read between the lines of all I had written, and knew that more and more lines were lying at the tip of my pen? Did you see the unexplored distances in my eyes, terrains and woods and gardens and seas I would want to travel with you?

Did you know all these the first time you laid eyes on me?

In your stead

I ask for nothing, my Love,

nothing.

I teach myself to map the stars, instead;
learn the language of dreams, instead;
decipher the patterns in tapestries, instead;
sink into the silence of evenings, instead;
poke my fingers at dust motes, instead;
listen to the rustle of curtains, instead;
decode the sound of raindrops, instead;
make-believe that the word "enough" is enough (instead of the illusion that it is), instead;
decrypt the litanies of forgetting, instead;
instruct my mind away from the futility of speech, instead;
adjust my vision to the farthest distances, instead;
unlearn the anguish of hope, instead;
thwart my own laughter, instead;
dream of sand and sunlight, instead;
convince myself there is value in patience, instead;
languish in skeins of words, instead;
teach myself the comforting rote of "it is what it is", instead;
subsist in waiting for I know not what, instead--cross this out--
I scream into this page, instead.

I know there is nothing, my love,

nothing.

I repeat this to myself, over
and over, I know
it by heart

ah, but my heart, you are 
my heart 

I teach myself the art of endings,
instead.

I teach myself how to write endings,
instead.

Mornings

I draw the curtains and sit on the high stool by the window, waiting for you to come home. I have tried writing almost the entire day yesterday, but have ended up deleting what paltry lines I've put down.

I am a little restless. This morning, the sound of the waves fail to soothe my nerves--I sit here, watching the sea, biting the ends of my nails, my cup of tea grown cold.

You have been gone for two days. For two days, I have not heard the door knob click open, have not heard your voice boom that "I'm home, Love!" which is music to my ears, have not been swept into your arms and smothered with your kisses, have not giggled at your jokes or laughed at your antics. I am cold from the lack of your warmth. I miss peeking through the curtains and watching you chop wood.

Two days is too long a time.

Please come home.

Daphne's Grief

I pinpoint a particular,
an exact length of time,
A blur of seconds, one
after another, and another,
and another:

Just before she disappears
into a flurry of root, trunk, branch, leaf,
and just after he stretches out his arms
to embrace the paleness
she had started to fade into--
a tightening around her heart materializes
and a river of tears gushes out,
spilling all over: all her pain,
her exhaustion, the misery of having asked
so many questions that didn't have any answers,
the grief of loving while knowing
the anguish that comes with it,
the struggle to keep at bay
the infliction that comes with wanting more,
the grief of knowing she cannot, must not want more--

that moment, dear Reader, I
bespeak you to picture yourself
in that commotion
of plea and prayer for something one can hardly
know not what, exactly, the question
that must overcome the mind
while running in a chase
that seems to have no end in sight
except loss.

A reprieve was what she must have asked for,
a deliverance in any kind, any form,
anything but the pain that is and is to be.

Understand that all these, she bears
before succumbing to the transformation
that was to be her end, and even then,
she lifts her arms in a stance

of prayer: redeem me from my fall,
deliver me.

And because we choose not to hurt other people, we hurt ourselves, instead.

Dance

There was no music--
or was there? The music
was inside my head
like it always is when you are near.
I heard strings, and a lone trumpet
began softly cooing
when you gathered me into your arms, my cue
at sound, rhythm, movement.

My cue to extend love.

We started to sway--
by instinct? Imperceptible, at first,
tentative because that is how most of us learn dance: I remember
moving under dim lights,
the evening underway, time pushing itself
forward, and soon, goodbye,

but not yet, my Love, not yet.
I was not ready to let go
and neither were you--the story
of our lives, prayers for a little more:
a little more time, a little more you.

We flourish in agitations of hands,
grappling with minutes,
grasping moments with our palms,
despairing in low tones, muted cries and
held back tears, hidden in accepting smiles.
But not tonight.

We froze the clock's hands
and lingered in each other's skins.

Souls entwined,
we danced.

An exercise on futility

Then why did we worship clarity,
to speak, in the end, only each other's names?
- Louise Gluck

I teach myself the mechanics
of blankness:
I put my hand over the page
where I have written down the letters
of your name
as if it were your face--

a caress over
nothing. To undo

the deed, I erase
your face. But the heart
is a trickster, and

evenings make it twice
as difficult. The lights are never bright
enough for me to see
it is not your face I am erasing
but my own clumsy handwriting.

Teach me how to make sense.

Fear

it is, and fear, it must be
that has made her summon the wind
to push her feet
ever into a run
over damp trail, thorn and leaf,
across rivulet, brook, spring,
this naiad, child of the river,
pale figure in the woods, frail except
in the chase that is to be
the beginning of her end.

For what gloriousness must he have possessed for her--
god of sunlight and truth,
music and poetry, all
that she has loved and will
love. For love,
when it overtakes us,
finds us at our weakest, exposes all
that is naked in us until, confronted
by that which we dare ask for only in dreams, we
tremble in the face of the very thing
we desire:
Possession.

And at the core of her fear lies
her soul, struggling against the promise
of redemption from being haunted
by her own shadow. There is
beauty in capture, but the heart insists
on the imminence of loss--
absolute, encompassing--
the plight of all that is beautiful,
as he is beautiful, and therefore,
may yet be her greatest
loss.

This, he does not understand--he thinks
her flight a refusal of his outstretched hand--
so that when, finally, the struggle ends (for it is written, and so it must be)
and she transforms into the magnificent myth
where the story ends,

her deliverance is from herself--
whom she most fears, not
he.

Lament

I kneel on the grass, weeding. There are no blooms to be seen, and I am a little angry at you for leaving this garden desolate. It is covered in brown leaves, fallen over all the nights you have lain, unconscious, in that scary-looking bed of yours, and you, breathing so softly as to almost be still--you have made your own garden out of those stern-looking tubes and little wires, the cold smell of medicine wafting around you like cold ether.

I pause and look at the chairs, the big tree, the empty basket, and I swallow the lump in my throat, willing the tears downward, downward. How abandoned everything looks! Where, the laughter and the conversation, where have our plans gone to?

In fact, dear friend, I am more than a little angry at you. You still owe me Prague, Paris, New York. You owe me pages and pages of stories. You owe me that autographed book in your shelf. How can you lie so still now, so changed, a stranger to all who love you? How can you be so distant from me, how can I not save you, you who once saved me?

I will pull out the weeds until my hands bleed. I will replace those tattered seat cushions with new ones--yellow, not brown. I will tend this garden until it comes back to life. I will read here everyday, dear friend, I will wait for you to come back.

Listen to all the people calling out your name in their prayers. You are so loved, so how can you lie, so still, unheeding?

Colors

--the dark red they call Brennende Liebe,
which I find so beautiful.
- Louise Gluck

Amaranthine, the sunset, where we are. The eyes, for a moment, flicker, arrested by the sudden transitions, looking for gradation, nuance.

Capture, understand: there are no in-betweens.

But look toward the sky, now, Love, and touch that remaining light blue of forget-me-nots, for it is making way for teal, turquoise, and soon, the hour's riot of shades mimicking fire--flaxen, amber, saffron, ochre, rust. The mind conjures primroses, orange blooms. You, golden.

Next: crimson, rose, magenta. Now, a scarlet flame, and for the briefest moments, cobalt fire. But there is no cobalt in fire, you say--your voice, sapphire.

I put a finger to your lips.

Brennende liebe.

Dearest Love, a poet once wrote, and I, too, write: Dearest Love, look for my name in the sky. Trace that hint of scarlet, the color of kindling. I languish in embers. Look for my face in the sky.

Soon, evening. My silence turns from cyan to midnight blue, following you wherever, everywhere you go.

Train Station

A train station is one of the worst places for a chase. If this were a movie, the tall guy in the blue shirt knows his chances of success could be higher; as it is not, there is the sad reality of a huge, rush-hour crowd to elbow through: throngs of people determined to get to where they are going, unmindful of other possibilities aside from their own, heedless of such intangibles as the potential loss of a love some people wait their entire lives for.

The seconds he had spent hesitating now hang in the warm, congested air like silent reprimands. If he had started running the moment he had recognized her, he thinks, perhaps, he wouldn't be watching her board the train fifteen feet away from him, a tiny figure in a moving picture, rushing with the rest. A hundred memories stir inside him--sunsets, long walks, snapshots of her smiling up at him, woven dreams of tomorrow.

So there he stands, his feet cemented to the floor, his breathing as heavy as regret. The day she went away, she had told him "let me know, kiddo. And don't take too long." She didn't tell him where she was going, and he didn't ask.

For months, he had hesitated, weighing his options, having sleepless nights. He became a ghost, a hollow shell. Until one morning, he woke up and realized none of the lights wherever he was was ever as bright as when she was there. Something inside him seemed dead; he could feel a sun setting inside him everyday. Suddenly, panic, rage at himself.

Frantic, he called her number again and again and sent her e-mails everyday, ready to rise from the pool of uncertainty they had seemed to swim around forever. For years, he waited for the chance to redeem himself from indecision. She never answered his calls, never wrote back. 

And now he watches the train speed by him, past him. He says her name out loud, but the engine drowns out the sound. 

Nights

"No more drinks for you tonight," you, whispering into my ear, whisking my glass away.

"That tickles," I cower and giggle. The duo onstage is playing "Turn Your Lights Down Low" and I am feeling warm all over. Warm from the beer, the mojito, from you. "And what was that you said?" I turn sideways to look at you, rest my cheek on my hand, and gaze at your jawline. I trace it with my eyes, up to your cheek, your brows, your eyes--gold-flecked, dark pools by the dim lights of the bar. I could disappear into them. I know I would; I often do.

You smile. "I said I think you're drunk." I look at your mouth. I've always liked looking at your mouth. I know their movements, their rest.

A waitress comes by, smiling. "More drinks?"

You shake your head, "no more, thanks. Our bill, please."

"But I want another mojito," I, pouting. You kiss the tip of my nose. You don't say anything. Our check arrives and you place three money bills on the small tray. "It's time to go, Love. We don't wanna miss the moon."

"Alright." I get up, letting you lead me out of the bar. The night breeze greets us as we step into the sand, and I wrap my arms around my shoulder.

"Cold?" You pull me close, and I smell the scent of your skin--clean, familiar, a scent I know by heart.

"Hmm, you smell nice." I snuggle close to you as we walk toward the shore. Now and again, a wave crashes against another, creating a rhythm that both fascinates and comforts. Moonshine reflects on the water.

"Let's sit there," you point to a spot.

"Have you forgotten what day today is?" Your voice is low and calm.

"Today is a beautiful day," I murmur  sleepily, lulled by the sound of the sea, enchanted to a stupor by the moonlight. I am watching the waves, wondering if you are, too.

You laugh. "Years ago, we pulled an all-nighter and shared a fluffy blanket underneath the stars. Tonight was when I finally gathered the guts the tell you how I felt."

I break loose from being nestled in the crook of your arm and turn around to look at you. "But that was eons ago! And you once confessed you only got around to teeling me because I told you I had been having dreams about you, for some unexplained reason."

I smile at the memory. I lean back against your chest, listening to your heartbeat, reliving all the fumbling and trembling and shyness of that night.

"You keep forgetting I have the combined memory of five brilliant men," you laugh and kiss the top of my head.

"Bah, humbug. You didn't seem so sure of yourself then, and I was wracking my brains for what could have possessed the Mr. Swagger I knew that he seemed so uncertain, all of a sudden. I could taste your fear then, do you know?"

You brush your thumb along my forearm. "But here we are, Love. Here we are."

I am a little surprised by your thoughtful, mellow mood. You seldom have them and I wish you'd have them more often. "And all that week, you seemed so happy and so sad, both at the same time. I had to keep telling you--this love is what it is, this love is what it is, this love is what it is--until I knew the words by heart and could recite them in my sleep."

You wrap your arms tighter around me. "I believed you, then. I just wasn't so sure I believed in myself. I am full of questions--always have been."

"I know," I say, "but see, Love, asking never leads anywhere except to more questions. Sometimes, we just have to let things be. Just feel, just be. Don't you think that makes one more alive than asking and seeking? The universe conspires to let happen the things that happen and will happen. I mean--did it even occur to you that we would meet, at all, before we  saw each other for the first time?"

"I know. I learned that from you. It takes courage to surrender to the air. I have never been good at letting go--I need to grab everything by the horns."

"Yeah, that's why you used to throw fits of rage so often and that's why you would keep talking about being in between rocks and hard places and advocating Murphy's Law." I pinch your arm and you laugh. "But anyway, there's one thing I'm sure I will never, ever learn," I look up at you and tickle your chin.

"And what's that?"

I turn my gaze back to the sea. "I don't think I will ever learn how to let you go."

Splashing waves, the strains of a guitar, a friendly breeze blowing. "It's not as if I didn't try. I practiced, everyday, in case you didn't know, long before I was even aware I was thinking of you much more often than I should. But I never figured out how--even my books couldn't teach me that."

"I'm glad you failed miserably. Otherwise, you wouldn't be in my arms right now, sharing this sea with me."

"I wish this night could go on forever."

We both turn quiet, and I'd like to think our minds are meeting somewhere, in this hour, one.

Somewhere in my soul, rapture. Gratefulness fills me and I whisper a prayer into the sea, for handing you over to me, if only for this moment.

Above us, the moon glows bright and silent, illuminating the sky with its gentle light.

Afternoons

"Ahoy, Captain!"

I do not budge from the book I'm reading, but from behind my dark glasses, I watch you run toward where I'm sitting.

I trace your leanness with my eyes, drink in the length of your strides, your legs reminding me of the sleek lines of sports cars. You are squinting at the sun, and just at this moment, you are the personification of adorable perfection--a man-boy, naked to the waist, dripping with saltwater, gleaming in the sunlight.

"Effin hunk," I mutter under my breath, my concentration now completely ruined.

"What was that, Captain?" You swoop down to kiss me.

"Ahoy yourself," I dismiss you with a wave of my hand. You slump into the chair beside mine and start shaking the water off your hair and arms.

"If you so much as ruin my book with all that water, you're gonna have to get me a new one."

"Cranky, cranky," you snatch my book from my hand.

"But that's a Hemingway!"

"I'll get you two of these, my Love," you laugh and toss the book to the sand. "From this point, no more reading. It'll be sunset soon, let's go for a walk."

I shake my head and reach for the cooler. "Here, have a beer first. You look like you need one."

"Thanks, Love." You take off the cap and take a swig, and I watch you from lowered lids--head tilted back, the lines on your neck and jaw sculpted to perfection, droplets of water glistening on your skin. You look like some sun-kissed deity come to grace my world with your presence. My breath catches and I groan.

"I know, I know," you wink and grin, "I am very good-looking."

"Shut up and kiss me," I mumble, and you do. My world stops turning, for a moment.

"Walk, Love?" You take my hand and I oblige.

Soon, we are walking along the shore, the sound of crashing waves enveloping us. My hand is in yours and I sigh, content, thinking how all this is more than I have ever asked for. Once in a while, I would stop to curl my toes in the sand. You have made me fall in love with beaches and sunlight, you have made me fall in love with water.

"Do you remember the first time we did this?" You look at me, smiling.

"Yes, Love, I do," I glance back at you. "Something like that wouldn't be so easy to forget. That beautiful blue, that strip of sand. I wanted that walk to go on forever, though I was still too shy to tell you that. I mean, how could I have known you were already planning to sweep me off my feet that time?" I giggle. You make me giggle.

"Well, we could take long walks forever," you squeeze my hand. "We can go to all the beaches in the world and walk along each shore."

One of the things I love about you is that you never fail to surprise me--the things you do and say, all these bursts of sweetness. Changing from straight lines to undulating ones, teaching me invoices one moment, dreaming of sunsets, the next. You are so many wonderful things wrapped in skin, sinew, muscle.

"I like that plan," is all I say.

Distant music reaches my ears. "Look, Love, dancing!" I grab your arm and start heading for the bar to our right.

You stop me in my tracks. "Yes, Love, dancing. But later." You turn me toward you and put your hands around my waist. "Can I just tell you something first?" I feel my heart start to race as you look at me with those lovely, lovely eyes, eyes that mirror starlight and all things beautiful in this universe.

"Love," you say, tightening your hold on my waist and brushing your lips on my forehead, "such a tiny, tiny thing you are."

"Bummer!" I shout, laughing, and break lose from your hands. "You stay there and talk to the waves, I'm going dancing!"

I lift my skirt and start to run, laughing. You catch up on me and we head for the bar, holding hands.

Behind us, the sky begins to change colors. Twilight is waiting around the corner.

Sonnet XVII

- Pablo Neruda

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Evenings

The soft lights of blue lamps lend our surroundings a peaceful, muted glow. Hours ago, the place was alive with sound--tinkling glass, laughter, conversations in low tones, a soft syncopation of forks hitting plates, jazz in the background--contained energy, all in all.

The lights were orange, then.

It was your idea: sunlight in the morning, orange lights in the afternoon, a blue glow for when evenings come. "To simulate the changing lights of the day, Love, to steal just a little magic from creation," was what you said when you came up with the plan, a few years back. You, whom I thought ate logic and numbers for dinner, you who snacked on facts, timelines, data. Who would have thought you knew poetry? I may have seen it in your eyes, at some point, or another, but this--this loveliness is all from you.

I remember you startling me by quoting Shelley, once.

We have closed shop half an hour ago, it is 10:33. Now it is just you and I, and the fairy dust in this blue glow has mingled with the wine you've poured into my glass, making me feel lightheaded, awake and dreaming, even as I watch you take a sip from your wine, your eyes on mine, watching me, watching you.

"Put on Miles, Love," I hear myself saying.

Soon, "It Never Entered My Mind" fills the air. Soon, your arms are around my waist, my arms are wrapped around your neck, and we are swaying gently, gently to a cooing trumpet, a piano, soft cymbals. I lean my left cheek to your chest and you brush your lips against my temple. The music floats around, wrapping us, and I think of tenderness, think of the color blue, of tears all behind us, of warm breakfasts, of walks on the beach, of guitar strains, of sunsets, of moon-glow, of starlight. I feel your heart, beating.

"Let's get you to bed, Love," you, whispering, freeing my hair from its clasp. I feel your hands running up, down my back, and I bury my face into your shirt. "Five minutes," I say, "just five more minutes."

I am exhausted and tipsy, but I want this moment stretched into as far as it could be stretched. The wine, the music, and your nearness have all gone to my head, and I close my eyes. I mumble the lines of a sonnet, mixing up the words, my memory faltering a little, my voice trailing off. You touch the small of my back and I grow weak. I let myself. I feel no worry, no fear when you are with me.

Outside, the night deepens. Moonbeams reflect calmly on still surfaces.