Nearly satisfied by nothing,
we watch the curtains breathe,
pushed out and sucked in
by bragging wind.
My skin was still sticky from a
night without a fan in July.
Although heat is a paralytic,
I’m still shaken
by what I know of you
and it seems like so very little.
Sunlight holds to your skin like
bugs in a web. And you look so
beautiful wearing freckles that take over.
Spots that sing even brighter than your eyes.
I hope you get the quiet you look for
after a war with your history.
I hope this is the quiet right here.
So that I’ll be there, maybe tugged along
into the world you move on to.