Was it the wind or was it someone
asking, How have you been?
As night falls, sitting there watching the bridge’s reflection
cast across the river,
a sliver of moonlight cascading down your neck,
suddenly the scent of bellapples mixed with sweet sugarcane.
Fine, I said. That was no wind,
but a voice deep from the heart.
How have you been? Then no answer
coming from you or me.
At the water’s edge also,
the din of summer had died down,
a glimmer of light shining through; the leaves were wavering,
swayed by the wind.
Let’s shut the door—the corridors are spying;
The elevator waits for no one.
I’m fine if you are
and you’re fine if I am,
whether or not the seasons show mercy,
and the winds come and go,
gushing into the flood-ravaged back alleys,
be it when cherries turn red or lips turn cold,
memories will forever toss and turn, dancing between those
shimmering white folds.
No one’s quite like you
and no one’s quite like me.
Pages torn from the calendar each day tell of another year
your glamorous face wet-brushed by the drizzle of weather
our daily exchanges sketched by the bright clouds of sunny
fingers combing through the warmth of your body,
frazzled hair dancing to your playful breathing.
Are a thousand and one nights sufficient
to tell the tales of nights a thousand and one?
Not unless we gaze nightly towards the sky’s edge,
roll down the windows to the Milky Way
and light every prayer incense.
Over and through the hills we’ve come back again,
the lights across the shore still flickering.