Dear Lover,
I woke last night, your name
on my tongue.
You weren’t there, but I was thinking of you:
with flames and fire, with embers and dew,
you branded me raw and kissed all you stung.
Lover, your name is an echoing gong
clashing with waves near a coy-faced moon.
I always begged you to return to bed soon;
for a composer never leaves his opera unsung.
Buried inside, you called this corpse
Happiness and Sanctuary.
You were branches, roots, and trunk,
croissant and chocolate, juice and teaberry.
I woke last night, your name in my head
thinking of days our love was summer-fed.