the sound of you
in every inkling there is a certainty, cocooned inside a heart once encased in lead, the same muscled heart you massaged into dancing again, two-step, merengue, jhyaure.
on days as hot as the inside of a tea-kettle, that same heart hops like a hare, furls like a flower, there is perverse pleasure in patience, like a face turned towards the sky, waiting for the rain, a desert in heat.
on nights as long as the waiting we do, when i confessed like a sinner, on my knees and pleading, you were giddy, ecstatic, choosing me as i chose you, and your presence wafted to me from across the seas, warm and light, so that even cold kathmandu nights now burn like falling stars.
this meeting accidental, a bump between two ants and two antennae, and like that, the damp and the cold recede like with the coming of the sun, like hallelujah, like hey ram, like goddamn.
how often do you think of kathmandu, how often do i think of lancaster,
i love you kathmandu, but i must leave you.
the skyline of your breasts, the asphalt of your stomach, the streets of your fingers, the furrows of your hair, what is a city but a person, what is a person but a city, what is the world but one person, what is one person but the world.
what is rain to the sound of you.