This is exactly how it happened:
I touched you once
and now my hands
are home-sick wanderers.
Missing someone is like hearing
a name sung quietly from somewhere
behind you. Even after you know
no one is there, you keep looking back
until on a silver afternoon like this
you find yourself breathing just enough
to make a small dent in the air….
I remember holding you against the sink,
with the sun soaking the window, the soft call
of your hips, and the intricate flickers
of thought chiming your eyes. Your mouth,
like a Saturday. I remember your
long thighs, how they
opened on the sofa, and the pulse
of your cry when you came, and
sometimes I miss you
the way someone drowning
remembers the air.
Stretch marks remind me
of the fission of a heart
after catching midnight red-handed,
metaphors in zig zag blushes,
the colour of coral in sleepy oceans
fading by layers of familiarity
from holding the moon in your mouth
(so it does not leave you again),
not of weakening but sun-rising
at 5:31 a.m. from 570 to 650 nm
in scattered wavelength, planting red
hibiscus’ behind tired eyes and left ears,
waiting for love stories to grow, to grow,
to grow again.
—The universe moves in rhythm,
ought to be declaimed
With each line, pulses can be felt & these
divide both poetry & music—
the morning is a light-headed opening and closing of doors,
where the sun dances through chiffon curtains,
delicately with rays for fingers and slowly,
as if saying: do not rush, dance with me,
and I rush anyways,
running into days, urgent and without taking my heart,
always forgetting it on the kitchen counter,
by the cracked eggshells and breadcrumbs.
Don’t fall in love,
they say it causes cancer:
I met a man who told me,
“the rivers and forests are lovers.”
and I see how they love, carelessly
when the water touches the land
and I feel less human and more
lets fall in love,
and cure heartache,
but I am confused with the fact
that I am human and earth.
It is important where we put our feet
and what we put in our mouths,
It is important to fight against the odds, but what about the evens —
and where do we rest our heads?
Where do we forget ourselves
and find home,
when home has been cut down for wood?