My lips miss yours.
So much so that I can feel them
Growing arms and hands so that
They can write thoughtful letters to yours
About how if they had eyes,
They would see nothing but yours;
Blind to any other love.
They write about how
If they had feet,
They would take any number of steps
Just to reach yours;
Just to touch
Even for a moment,
To hold their old friends close
In a warm embrace.
They write about how
If they had wings
They would let the wind whisk them
Halfway around the world
As long as yours were waiting on the other side.
They write about how
If they had a heart,
Every beat would sing for yours.
I sit in silence and watch;
An act of pure passion.

It's getting hot again, and I always start
to come back to life in the heat,
something to do with being covered in sweat
and the way things smell,
plants exploding everywhere,
wind caressing before a thunderstorm,
and the throbbing of drums deep in the night.
Somehow I always wake up with bites and scratches,
recurrent love-making and the urge
to put up mosquito netting so I can leave the windows open.
Ah, the sun turns everything soft here,
well, not necessarily everything when you're with me
and the world dissolves into a tangle of limbs and tongues,
something akin to dancing in private
and I'm not sure which I prefer;
the sensuality of moving to drums and guitars with you,
or the ferocity of our moonlight sonatas.

She's dark, yet
moonlight glows
inside her soft-eyes
& despite her
tragic-aura,
I still want
her blackness,
to taste her magic,
to kiss
the devil inside her.