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.