I write you, when I can't have you near me: Sketch you out in hurried, flowing script on loose leaf paper
and the blank back pages of books, Hotel bibles, especially.
Do you dream of a self portrait ?
What kind of tribute are you wishing for - what is the evidence you want to hold onto ?
My gift to you is words; will always be words
A description of morning sunlight on your face
the china white of your bare shoulders
the way your fingertips undo buttons as if they were locks
yours and mine
If you followed the path I've been traveling, you'd find yourself in each hotel room,
affectionately rendered in vibrant prose, then tucked back in the drawer,
all words in italics from beatrice