The tower never manages to pierce the sky,
which is lilac-silver, peaches, mist,
and always deserving of a mention
in this longer, desperate month.
Summer is on the way.
We must get happy, or else.
.
Sometimes, when I'm just about ready to fall asleep,
I picture you on your feet,
moving through the muggy air
on the other side of this world,
feeding the plants,
testing the sweetness of the plums.
.
I remember your fingers, the strength of them,
and swoon a little. God! I crave your smell;
your body's surprising weight.
We were marvelous during that summer in Well St,
remember? Before we used our heads on each other.
Before we had something to prove.
.
I hope you get more sleep these days,
and that your nights are filled with the kind of heat
we left each other for. As for me,
well, I'm trying to learn
how best to enjoy what's in front of me.
Or I try. At least I try.
.
I just don't think we're built
to understand Love and its Function
until it is lost/missed/gone/
reimagined. These inventions
of someone like you
are half-dream, barely reliable.
