I smell the cinnamon on her neck, the oregano in between her breasts,
I trace the basil that she rubbed on her belly with my fingers,
and kiss the coriander that spots her back like leaves' shadows.
The night will announce itself in creases of white linen that mark our arms like time;
when the sheet has folded itself into a carpet beneath us, we will know that the sun
has started to climb above the mountains, as we once climbed together, you and I -
before the swords had sown thickets of brown thorns into the earth that was once a green blanket beneath us.
When the sun breathes into us tomorrow, will you be afraid to cry?
No comments:
Post a Comment