365 Poems – 160 You (Rough First Draft)



You sweep in,

no shoes silent.

Hairs at the back

of my neck lift.


I’m sick in love

with you.


You murmur about

the presence of ghosts,

astral werewolves,

the price of a bottle

of wine in Reykjavik.


For me, hearing

your voice again is

another blessing.


Another chance

to slow down,

watch the movement

of your mouth.


Your absence

was so absolute.

My head was this

absurdly great abyss.


You watch me shower,

and I swallow the hope

I chopped, thinking

you’d never come back.


You feed me pistachio nuts.

The abundance of your accent

fills the room, my head.


You notice every detail

of my body, and fill me

like a hot thunderstorm,

at three in the afternoon.


Behind us, it’s six o clock.

Your clean tongue against my teeth.

You could braid the stars, make

the moon fall to her knees.


Your smile puts a sweet

taste in my mouth, and

sometimes, when I look

at you, I struggle for oxygen.


You can understand

how I’m feeling before

I’ve turned around

to face you in bed.


You tell me that

a wolf found asleep

at dawn is believed

to be close to death,

and I’m hypnotized.