halved

in these small hours of the night
I ache for the cage of your arms,
the vibrations of your chest
as you clear your throat,
the rough edges of your fingertips
planted along my spine.

instead, I curl deep into myself now,
my thoughts and breath
whispering back and forth to each other
as I trace my own bones
and try to remember.

when you are gone, my love,
I have nothing left of you
but the half of our body
that I inhabit.

hollywood, 5-5-14

we came here so she could learn
her words and how to speak them,
and so I could feel the air touch my skin.
she succeeds, I falter.
she stands with two friends, laughing,
kissing.
my hands tremble. I want to kiss someone. I want,
someone-
even the wind declines- it blusters around my face
and leaves me untouched.

my pen is useless in my hand
when I see him.
there, on the other side of the park,
a man stands under a tree,
kicking, kicking, kicking
a soccer ball up in the air,
alternating feet.

the breeze ceases its chill,
the insects in the grass
pause their scramble.
we watch,
the ants, the wind, the world and I,
we all come to a halt
transfixed to see how long
the ball can stay apart from
this magnetic soil.

for an instant there is no noise,
no fear,
no question of what is to come.
all that matters
is this man
and his ball,
ambivalent between earth and sky,
choosing air for now.