Every word I write, is a love letter
to things I can never touch again
Every idea is a ship launched
from the sandy shore of the now
We kiss with forgetful tongues,
As hands renew an embrace
Friends recalled in warmth
Lovers rejoined in darkness
For though the present prints memories
as sheet music for waterfalls
When we meet. . . deseo mía
steam churns, from our presses
white sheets, smoke, crisp and burn
intricately inked, endlessly possible
I am a dandelion in the cold desert
before our rolling, nuclear tidal wave
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