You wrap me around your arms,

You whisper soft, secret words.

You put your mouth on my mouth,

You hiss the word, “Love.”

Too bruised to speak, a drowning man,

My breaths come in gasps.

Outside the spring sun squints

At the dying blue jasmine in its terracotta.

I say, “Water.”

You say, “You should kiss me back.”

Your plumpness, your hidden curves,

They strangle me like grief.

In the cryptic centre of my head,

A voice recites a rhyme I read somewhere—

“We talked between the rooms,

Until the moss had reached our lips,

And covered up our names.”

What is driving my arms, my tongue

Is but a guided dream.

I close my eyes—

I picture you, a different you.

You slant your head,

Your eyes are half-shut,

You whisper in distaste—

“I want you here.”

But you will never find me here,

You did not bring me here.