When he thinks I’ve drifted, he sings to me;
voice breaking in the hard bits – ocean on shore.
Sea glass carried in his pocket,
he runs his thumb over an unspoken memory.
I call him back from childhood,
elevating myself just to reach him.
I can’t help but see my own father
in his strong upper lip.
He exists only in photographs,
now dust-covered, subterranean.
Nails bit down to the quick,
I get anxious about the way he drinks (and drinks)
and drives himself into
the light glowing crimson.
On a collision path, shamelessly green,
I wonder how he doesn’t have a favourite colour…
Synchronicity, more familiar than amorous.
It’s not in his nature to be so gentle,
wordlessly counting my intangible peripheries.
A builder’s calloused hands,
he deftly creates yet another home
in my fleshy lopsided hips.
The way he laughs and says ‘sweet as,’
I thought I lost the taste for saccharine on my last love.
But he’s agave nectar, deliciously pure.
An essence milked, a boy home-grown,
I imagine he tastes like slow-cooked kumara;
sweet and smoky, borrowed from the earth.
This side of the hemisphere, we orbit.
Antipodes, indefinitely just-out-of-grasp.
Fourteen thousand kilometers,
twelve years, and eighteen hours.
I’m waiting for his sun to rise
so that mine can too.
“The universe is in flux,”
I tell him when he asks me.
An intimate whisper, intravenous.
Chest heaving, slow breathing.
I can hear him smile:
“You’re absolutely lovely.”