Sunlight dribbles down the learning curve of my back as I arch over you, bridging the gap of years, experience, and tears.
And if you leave before it’s over, I will torture you with visions of my mouth when I put on mascara; my lips forming an oval then an arch like a half-sunken sun.
My arms began negotiations with sharp edges. But I somehow survived the winter; a fond memory leant against my door like a snow shovel.
I read John Le Carré below the beams of a converted farmhouse, under the arm of rural France. Light filtered in through the slats of painted wooden shutters,