As I watched, the moon turned lazily
on its side, revealing its swollen
eggshell of an underbelly, I
wondered, how long must I wait
for the crisp rotted-grass smell of
autumn to waft through the house,
I've lost your smell as well. The
red has faded from my ears, my
hair, but I have never felt such
living, present sense. My veins are
filled with a lukewarm shade of
gold that expands, molten, towards
the major arteries, creeping its motion
from the depths of my shoulder blades.
I want to taste that spicy aftershock
of being in your arms, to kiss the places
just behind your ears and watch a
flower blooming, creating itself within
your olive-toffee eyes. In you I'd
find myself afloat. I roll to sides to
feel the endings of your lost shape
hiding there -- come home, where's that?
It's wherever you'll be.