a love poem.

when we spoke late that night

my voice the unfurling little frond

your words wrapped in cumulus clouds

I commented on your lack of accent

you drove for hours on

the day that my hot hands

smelled of garlic and finely minced shallots

freshly washed sheets on the bed

with a hint of delicious night

it was 98 degrees in the shade

you acted as if you weren’t afraid

were we as absolute as the sky?

you pretended I didn’t scare you half to death

the morning you drove east

oxygen crept slowly from every room

slipped from under the doorways

the barometric pressure drew me to the floor

I can’t remember if I asked you to come back

when we spoke late that night

my voice the branch and yours the vapor

we were actors and thieves

adding the seconds to moments

we didn’t fathom broken glass 

© 12.1.2015 heather brager