Where You Are

He lies in the bath as she moves about him. 

Together they create a world of tight spirals and French curves. 

Words fill the space, fall like a mist, coat the counters, stain the walls. What happens when a poem is forgotten? What happens if the words are not saved?  We live in a swirl of language, invisible paragraphs surround us like dust.

Where you are: 

I imagine the streets are lined with flowers, and from the windows above, others strain to watch you pass and disappear into the distance. 

I imagine the air around you agitated by your breath, and little arcs of electricity pass from your fingers to the pages of your book. 

                                     How could I live without these thoughts of you? 

My appetite for you cannot be satisfied. 

I long for a moment of respite as strongly as I long for your mouth. 

My days are numbered, my fate is sealed. All the pages of my book are blank but for the last. The end is printed, etched, and illuminated. I sense you even with the great distance between us. I mirror your movements, 

still, 

           as you dream. 

You, on the other side of the world. 

You, flying in airplanes, sailing in ships. 

You speak a language foreign to mine, and the words that fall upon my shoulders are confused and mingled with this foreignness. We speak to others in words they will understand, but what we speak to each other, is a language that is ours alone.