I hate it
When you are so
Elusive to the page
It is susurrus against
My pores
This longing I keep
Though it palpitates
Against a blue morning
And rise do the dead
If only a minute before
Sunrise.
You I miss
On nights as hot
As coals under my
Eyelids
But you have yet
To pass through here
Your fingers as
The wind through my hair
Perhaps I dreamt
You and you made me
Perhaps it is I who
Refuses to wake.
