In this hot and humid night I doubt that I am coherent. Alone in bed at two in the morning has teeth. When you leave I feel a visceral loneliness that I am certain is internal. It always feels like April here. I ramble on about sunny meadows and how the wheat smells of lavender, tell you again about the painting that I am working on and how it takes so long to dry. I am acutely aware of the momentum of words and how I miss the tender touch of your hand on my thigh. My hands are worn raw in search of common ground but I haven’t the words to not betray myself after you have gifted me your history. Implicit trust frightens me. I wonder how you have such faith. I consume all that you give me as though each secret could never be an infringement. When I look into your impossible eyes all I really want to do is get drunk, draw maps upon your belly.