In this heat I wonder if I am coherent. Without you I feel a visceral loneliness. When we are together I make small talk about the weather and how the dog still barks when the summer heat forces me to fling open the shutters filling the room with night blooming jasmine or how I am still waiting for the oil to dry on the painting that I promised you. I am acutely aware of the momentum of words and the intense desire for the feel of your hand on my inner thigh. My own hands are worn raw in search of common ground. How can you trust me with your past, the woman in Berlin, that year in Turkey? I am so afraid of implicit truth still I take all you give as though each confidence is not an invasion.
To be honest all I really want is to get drunk on your impossible eyes and draw maps across your belly.