A kindness
“I want
to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”
. (Pablo Neruda)
Is it a kindness that I still
can hear your voice;
your whispers drawing maps
our flesh must follow?
That I, eyes closed,
can see your fingers tightening,
your back now sharply rising
like a victory arch?
That I, so far away,
can smell the salty,
swollen, opening furnace
where my tongue must seek your core?
That I, alone again for now,
can taste your breath,
your sweat and come,
as if these lines could fasten us to our desire?