As the wind floats
By my open windows,
And whispers into
My ears an ancient
Language that like
Leather drums,
has been heard
for generations,

It leaves me wishing
you were here.

Your body draped
On my bed,
My hands following
Through all I said
I would do.

Caressing the
Mountain range
Of your oat colored back,
Slowly getting to those
Parts where my lips
Have been placed
And I’ll never get back.

Come by,
So I can lose
All of me.