He was the epitome of masculinity with roots, buried deep
Gasping for air in the desert sands of Guadalajara, Mexico. From
Across the table he loved me. Standing in the kitchen he loved me.
Whispering the secrets of the world in poorly translated idioms.
I was nineteen when he picked up the couch. His dark skin
Looked so beautiful against the cream leather, its nylon seams
Blending into his own, the worn armrests unfolding into the hollow hills of his
Rolling shoulders. I held my breath as he slung it over the railing.
I swear it had feathers because it landed with a violent sigh seconds
after you would expect it to, two stories down. Several paychecks later he bought
a replacement but I never fully recovered, never properly mourned the loss
of the couch, our couch. Just gazed at it with envy as it sat free in the parking lot.
In my ear he breathes something about paradise. You don’t go to it, you bring
it with you. I remember this as I study the grout between the tiles. Picking me up he loves me.

Lena's Sonnet

She left before her scent could linger alive in your sheets
Before the sounds of soft things seeped through
And resonated like I resonated like I seeped
Pouring slow into the empty pores of you

Had she stayed, would you have kept her
While my portrait drips through the foggy window
The woman with piano key fingers
With little girl eyes, dark lashed and hollow

Reach, and touch the cold outlines of my veins
As they spindle through my body into yours
Can you feel them pulsing through the rain
Encapsulated rivers pooling at your bedroom door

You turn, a moment, hold your hand up to the glass
The clouds still drip for me, and you for me, at last