How can it be
that your face isn't mine?
Why do I love
when the tree bears no fruit?
A glance, a few words
I am permitted, maybe
but to run my fingers through your peppered hair
would be such a lovely thing.

I think my heart would break
if I could hold you tightly
atop rumpled bedsheets in February sunlight
carved from my desire
drinking a cup of you
filling me up.
That would be such a lovely thing.

If I could glimpse the kaleidoscope
it would sustain me
knowing the sun will still set.