The hair on your forehead is soft umber wheat
with a cerulean sky behind it,
the dent on your cheek is deep-
enough for me to rest in it

You are the emerald mountains
and the tranquil rain,
that calms me down
and hands me pain

You are jazz and blues
and if yellow ochre had a sound,
Lying in between our smiles,
was a place that you found

I miss you
and the little church in Lisbon,
across the lone bench,
with a stick that you relied on

In the back of my mind,
how could I ever?
When I've never met you
and I've never been to Lisbon

a.r.