Intangibles
Sweat gathers at the temple
for the first time
in my tiny, square patio.
You’ve been drifting to sleep
for half an hour,
when you text,
say something nice
Something nice?
It’ll have to be quick;
you’re slipping away.
I’ll wait to hear.
I won’t sleep.
And I can see it, in my head—
still frame at first, and then gathering
languid pace. Our space
we’ve built. Years from now.
It’s twilight, there, and we gaze
down at a rabbit in your flowers.
It hops, nibbles, hops, and then
disappears into the tree-line.
Your nose crinkles as you laugh.
You’re leaned against the far end
of the whicker couch, your face turned
in profile, watching. Your legs are
stretched across my lap, caramel
coffee in my hands, liquid solidity,
and they absentmindedly massage
your feet…
go on…
Still there?
mmhm.
Here: The cicadas have stilled
for the first time in days; maybe
they’re listening too.
There: Crickets and frogs
croon for companionship
in the dark; a deep breath
like a sigh, then a coo, then silence
from the baby monitor at my back.
You slide to my side and lay
your head on my shoulder, my arm
lifting without thinking to draw you
in—and we watch. And we listen.
Til rain tiptoes the roof over our heads.
is there thunder?
No, baby.
Or lightning.
okay, sorry. go on…
I kiss the top of your head, your fingers,
my fingers scratching through
the Gordian knot
of your hair.
Eventually, you lift your face,
looking at mine, candle eyes–
reflected light from the fire
in your dark
and I think. I remember. How it felt
to be there (here), my soles in concrete, but
dreaming about this day.
And my finger slides beneath
your chin, lifting your lips to mine. Softly. As if
I might fright you. My forehead rests
against yours, and I breathe the scent
of air that has crossed the wonders
of your chest. And I feel
perfect peace.
sigh.
that sounds perfect.
I love you.
I know. I love you.
Now go write…
So I do. And while I do,
one little cicada squeaks
in the one little tree
behind my shoulder.
I can’t see him
in the dark, in the night,
but he doesn’t seem to mind;
he still sings.
So I write. And I post.
And for a little while
you don’t feel so far
away.
8 thoughts on "Intangibles"
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I like the dreamy romantic qualities of this poem. The mention of a baby monitor that is near grounds the poem in reality for just the right moment.
Thank you, Kim 🙏
Absolutely lovely, a piece to bask in.
Glad you enjoyed, Leah,
Thank you.
Especially love “the gordian knot of your hair” and “my soles in concrete”. Unexpected and vivid choices.
Thank you, Austen!
I’m glad you liked those phrases.
They definitely felt like they pushed through to me, vs the opposite.
You’ve really got a great understanding for how to infuse every detail with care and history.
Thank you, Shaun.
Enjoying reading your every one as usual this year.