I am singing to you, the soft grass of my mouth.
An orchard grows everywhere I do not long for.
I know when this is over, the longing will last a few
months and then there will be someone new
filling your place in the bed, the indentation where your
head rests now, peaceful like a new moon.
It is as if you are dreaming of a celebration, the kind you
imagine without touching, children staring at a painting
of a piñata, only the promise of candy. One day, when we
are over, I will dream of you crossing the river where we
washed our feet, walking to some other land
where this is possible, the heat that comes
from our bodies when we touch, the way our eyes
turn into dark toys when they link arms.