Thoughts of Sophia come
like mosquitoes after a rain storm --
the compost pile ripens and I'm
finally writing down what I've been trying
to ignore. Feels like home,
but you're here -- what is it
to long for someone who sleeps beside me?
New bites adulterate our bodies, we scratch,
we break skin, and Sophia's
mother tells you she's still counting the days until
you love Sophia again.
My shadow doubles
like a rainbow across a puddle
in the driveway -- guests are fashionably late.
I look to my right and the trees turn black
against a faded sky -- there could be stars.
Airplane tail-lights
flash through a far off cloud, invisible
passengers smiling, waving.
I wonder, does Sophia look the same
on land as she does in the air?
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