It’s four in the morning—
and I wake up to your face.

My eyes,
lidded into slits,
scourging little crusty bits
inside.

I watch you—
twitch in your sleep.
My heart
stutters at the sight,
and I
slink under the covers
of your arms
around my shoulders.

You gather in the flowers
in the garden
of my abdomen—
weaving ringlets of peonies
into your curls between my fingers.

I put my head
on your chest.
Listen—
can you hear the sound of that
river under my feet,
sweeping colours into green?

But I miss you.
Every morning—
every night—
every evening,
when I cling to the sheets
that smell like your sleeves,
sniffing traces of a perfume
on a t-shirt that I stole
from the heap inside your cupboard.

No—
I picked it from the pile
of clothes,
That you took off
and then flung aside.

I listen to your voice
in every call
that never lasts long enough—
hear you whisper:

“I’ll come,
see you in just a month…”

Like it ain’t thirty days too far.

I wish I knew I’d miss you.
I wish it did not hurt so much.
But that’s wishing for a love—
that couldn’t shake the world
or paint the stars.