Love againI was going to tell you something.More Like This
But then you smiled sheepishly at my frown; and some kids shouted, distracting me.
You talk about politics, articulately, and joke about your professor, the one with the vest, while taking a sip from my take-away tea. I start wondering how it came to be, that I always wear the earrings you like, that I never laugh at Star Trek anymore, and your favourite colour suddenly is green (like mine).
I succumb to studying the part of your hair that sticks up at the back, and stealing a bite from your blueberry muffin.
I haven't writtenI haven't written about you. Or the sun in Quito, kind of like the sun here: sometimes yellow-morning; sometimes dim and blurry inside clouds; sometimes absent as I have been from Santo Domingo.More Like This
Oh, I haven't written you into sentences that say 'missing.' That say it with a bird's tender voice resting on the Esmeralda sand; or warm footsteps upon streets on the way to a room with books.
I just haven't, you see. And today I will not write either. Either write you into sentences or sentence myself to write about you even in one word. What word? Indeed!
I almost could, though. I almost thought that I did - carving longing into letters that form poems, one and one and one upon another - but you left again so soon, and I just haven't written about you.