I am in a hot room
with windows so tall
the walls are glass.
With sun so low in the
in the day
it swallows shadow whole
but not with gold.
And somehow those palm trees don’t have to
be seen to be felt.
The same for our city.
The same for you while you busy yourself in the kitchen.
Not quite like the sun.
How when it sets it leaves
and we call it night.
How hot nights are explained only by day’s heat.
So this bed. We may not have to put love into it
just for it to hold.
The sun is not only alive when seen.
Find comfort in that.
As you do not breath on intention,
you do not have to turn the earth
or replant and replant the trees for them to stay swaying,
you do not have to leave your busy thing
or take your bare feet off linoleum
just to ask if I’m awake.
I carry on in here and you carry on in there.
Loving everywhere we put ourselves.
Because we do not live to be witnessed.
(Though we love to be, though we love to be).
And even in mutual love, one’s love remains one’s own.