WHOM HE WAITS FOR LIKE A LONELY HOUSE
He told her she's a walking poem written by Neruda. Said her dark skin reminds him of a tree but feels like a dolphin. Her eyes dug into his heart and blinded his pulse, the curve of her lips swung like hips to the dance of her smile; she was a song he hadn't learn the words to yet. Repeating her spanish name in his head, trying to trace the shape of her from each letter, tonguing the syllables, tasting every corner of the pronunciation; she was enough to press against and have her pull from his mouth a word, a promise, a lie, a truth, a joke, a name, a question, an answer, an excuse, an insult, a tease, an apology, an idea, a confession, a kiss, a groan, a smile, a whisper, a bite, a growl, a whistle, a sip, a pout; anything, anything that he felt would strike a reaction out of that face, that body, that mind--such an achievement would be like watching God create light based upon your request.