More than your shirt I’m wearing.
More than the wildflowers in the field.
The purple will yield to yellow—
when it turns red I will not be here
to see it. This weight I feel is not
the weight of your body. When I touch
your skin I am trying to remember it—
It is not your skin I need to remember.
Nor this particular shade of violet
flattering the field. When your tongue
entered my mouth this morning I tasted
that flower—I know each year the same
color will return. When I take off
your shirt tonight I will anticipate
the red waiting to overtake the field.
Sto ascoltando: Chicane, "Saltwater"