qarrtsiluni

how much, and easily
or seeming so, she moved in me
to produce such things, such things.

she sings, i think, and bites her lower lip
a tiny bit, in the pictures i have seen.
i hope to see her someday soon, again,
often and again.

hold fast: how fast, into the spicy dark
the dream of icy dark can melt.
how soon, how soon…?

abstracted from tomorrow or next year
into just now
into “just then…

the air was cold
my fingertips were cold
her fingertips were cold
when first our bodies met-
legs, stomachs, arms&chests&lips-
but heat grew outward from our hips
often and again.”

how cold, nostalgia’s sting.

by Matthew Lafferty