Hard to sleep last night after long bike ride, jotted this down:
Number 13
The bright morning light
shone through the thin mountain air
flooded the downstairs bedroom
with the warm glow
of pure young love.
Tracing the inside of your arm
slowly at the pace of morning
from wrist to elbow
bicep to armpit
the curve of your breast
ribs and soft belly and hip
across the tops of your thighs
a pleasure you could not resist.
After
ravenous for the Number 13
breakfast at the Soda Springs Café
eggs on potatoes
with cheese and green onions
and a splash of salsa
and hot coffee for me.
We don’t make love any more.
I rarely eat breakfast.
Midwest mornings are dull and damp.
The torch you carried for me
has gone cold but now I see
it wasn’t a light in the dark
because we glowed
in perpetual sun.
Now I am the dark.
I need your torch to lead me back
but I have sucked all the air
out of our world
and choked the flame.
I am black like an oil slick
spreading over the sparkling sea
coating your feathers with tar.
Now I depend on coffee
but the taste is bitter
the effect muted
dulled by
a chronic fatigue of the soul.
I miss holding your warm body
I miss lingering over breakfast together
but more like nostalgia for a favorite book
not like body hunger.
And of course
the light
I miss the light.
