Late at night, trapped in memories and longing,
reality fades to dust as fantasies unwind.
Fingertips oiled, though parched by the sun glide eloquently over
your enthusiastic lettering stained on wrinkled paper that once rested beneath your hand –
that hand that mine is so familiar with, that hand that ebbs in mine –
letters victimized by your heart and ink you wielded for translation:
the language of love, sold to words for only a fraction of its worth.
The dark is illuminated; longing disappears momentarily as lips perk up
from natural elation: memories…
Pictures are projected upon the ceiling as memories become images.
A child’s flipbook created in art class; Spielberg slaves over a lens:
even they could not create happiness like this.
Happiness beyond the norm, joy even angels are less fond of.
Auspicious thoughts run in a new direction;
panic ensues: a jewel burrowed in a stack of hay.
Those same callused hands desperately grope the dresser,
hastily pulling out a drawer, then another, and another..
Finally, my mind sets itself at ease:
anxiety vanishes as swiftly as candlelight is stifled by suffocation –
and there is another memory, a tangible picture.
Something real; your smile.