In such a hot and humid night I wonder if I am coherent. Alone in this bed at two in the morning has teeth and when you leave I feel a visceral loneliness that I am certain is internal. It is always April here. I ramble about sunny meadows, the way the wheat smells of lavender, tell you again of the painting that I am working on for you and how it takes so long to dry. I am acutely aware of the momentum of our words and the tender touch of your hand between my thighs. My hands are worn raw in search of common ground but I haven’t the words to not betray myself. You have gifted me your history. The man in Berlin, that year in Turkey. I am frightened by implicit trust, how can you have such faith in me? Still I consume all that you give as though each confidence is not an infringement. When I look into your impossibly blue eyes all I really want is to get drunk, draw maps upon your belly.