I could not have found
a more perfect dress
for wearing in the middle
of March.
How do we measure
the significance of your
swift steps in the evening
as you return home.
A home where you will
undress me, slowly removing
layers, revealing skin,
producing my naked body
in the bed where we find time
to explore the magic of
skin on skin.
I am yet standing on the
opposite side of the world,
wondering about food and
bombs and how your eyes met
mine when I last saw you,
how I can fast-forward a year,
how there might be no hope anyway.
I can not give you anything.
I can not stand for anyone but myself
when pits are evolving in my stomach.
