(no subject)

[aedrais]

Forty-four days from here.
(or, Breathe in, breathe out, one-two-three-four-five.)

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One.
Always, it's the
stillness of your absence for which
I run.
          (For which, from which, it's
           all the same. Distance and dust.)

Two.
                                And we're moon-sung across
                                Atlantic waves,
                                dew drops on your breath. I want
                                to catch my fingers in
                                the thread of this;
                                                           I've believed in love before.

Three.
It's possible
to translate the hollow of your neck, sweat like
sparkling wine and
                            drunken dizzy.
           But I won't.

Nor touch the gold
of lazy summer sunlight, afternoon
dust motes heavy as your glow,
sticky-sweet with honey, drowning
slow-motion in the intoxication of the
                     swirl of your tongue.

They don't speak like that in Avignon.
Like us but different.

Four.

Five.
We're only tracing
themes of love.
                       Still,
                       I've believed in less before.

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