at first i thought it might be the morning dew and lingering fog. but when it lifted and i still cou

i hid my poems beneath the curls of your hair. i laid my smile between the layers of your skin and found your touch to be a welcome blanket coming over me. and i took your jeans off for you, wanting to catch you as you are and not as the rest of the world gets to see you. resting my face on the inside of your thigh, then turning you over and kissing their back, teasing you with suggestions and caresses. i did that. i did it often. i think it's partly why you continue to come back to me now. how much of yourself can you give until you reach the point of not being able to take it back? and if that point is never reached, can never be reached, then it's not really giving. it's a farce. because that which is given can never be taken away. like my grandmother used to tell me, what's yours no one can take away. and it's true. if it's yours, it's yours. if it can be taken away, well, then it wasn't really yours. it wasn't given to you at all. touching you and looking for things, real and fictional, in your hills and valleys, i forgot what it was i was looking for. and all i could think of was the way to and from you. i left my arms around you long after it was time to place them there again. i tied my mouth around your bends. i licked the salt water off your skin and left behind a trail to find my way back around again. i hid my poems beneath the curls of your hair. i laid my smile between the layers kittel of your skin and found your touch to be a welcome blanket coming over me. and i took your jeans off for you, wanting to catch you as you are and not as the rest of the world gets to see you.
sometimes at the bus stop, sitting on the steps of the old photo studio, i wonder how many of the dogs who pissed on the hydrant did so thinking it was someone's leg. i don't know why i think this, why i wonder this exact thought instead of thinking about the delay in the traffic lights on ferry. but i do. and i have the feeling that if i thought of it someone else must have done so as well. and that if two people are thinking kittel of it, some dog must have done it long ago.
at first i thought it might be the morning dew and lingering fog. but when it lifted and i still could not find my way, i grew afraid. at every turn another kittel stone blocking my path, and i recognized the names of the streets, but not enough so that i'd find my way. suddenly, i was left to my own devices in the middle of the city that has so often been my sole crutch. i want to know it again. i want to feel it again. how else can i hope to find you? i must first relearn the names of the streets, where they lead, and, most importantly, where they came from. i'm running down sidewalks chasing people that aren't really there. kittel i remember seeing them once, although i can't recall when or why or even what was said, if anything. so if you do reappear, suddenly and unexpected, you can show me the way home. we'll laugh about things from our past and find a reason to make the trip last longer than usual. not that i'll know how long it should take, but i'll be able to tell from your eyes. i can find the answer to anything and everything in their brown depth. i can see clearly through them as if i was looking at the same thing you are. and i like that. i love that. at first i thought it might be the morning dew and lingering fog. now i realize that the reason i can't find my way back is because that's not where i need to be. so i'm looking forward. counting my steps just in case i need to double back, but i'm only looking forward. and hopefully, hopefully sooner rather than later, i'll find you along the way. i'll relearn this city and discover a new way to lick your tears away.
in the days my hand found its way up the inside of your thigh, your skirt was an idle witness watching and admiring as my touch migrated up the warmth of your leg. warmer. warmer. and your mouth to mine, the gravity of desire. and there, in the passenger seat of my car, you took me as best you could - always careful to dispel fact from fiction - and understood me better, at times, than even i could understand myself. so when you left, initially i thought it was something to do with something kittel about myself i was blind to. a detail that escaped me. a bad trait. a weakness. but you continued to come back, loving me shyly and concerned like you did when we first met, before we became home for one another. and during those visits i saw how your eyes still looked at me the same way - the love was not gone! that wasn't the problem. i wasn't something terrible. your heart had not changed course. so rather than dwell in the why, i chose to concentrate on getting you back. i went through all our memories and found a few i couldn't let go. one of which is that of my hand going up your skirt in a moment so intimate she (the skirt) could do nothing but stay out of the way.
Há já muito tempo que não me perco na música dos teus dedos, o silêncio dos segredos que nem a nós mesmos contamos. Mas ao