On damp sheets
breathing sticky air
we swelter from yesterday's heat,
lingering in your small room
you've painted a dark and cold blue
with someone else since I last saw you
lying in your bed, and your window
somehow bigger than it should be
always facing east.
Sunrise comes
too soon in summer.
You endlessly daydream of sleep
while I step to your window to look
into the long days, unsure if I will stay
or go or come back again
when you call me now and then
to renew your claim
on my longing.
It's lost to me
how this began.
I'll need to forget when it ends.
Time will stream forward in between,
fast and slow, I'll be here then I'm not,
often thinking of you, the truth
in your words and touch,
and your other lovers.
The tall tree
outside your window
seems to pray with arms raised
high, drinking of the light that pours
down and through this glass onto you
in your bed with your messy hair stuck
to your neck I kissed last night
and your wet skin.
I return
and lay myself down
upon you; as an offering,
you humble me; with graceful hands
you gather this moment and hold it.
Your sweat washes away my doubt,
open limbs receive me, and your eyes
that know me and your breath on my face
are my morning prayer.
