I miss your eyes
when they open excitedly,
like windows overlooking a
softlit garden in Spring.
I want to find your hands
in the sleepdusk oil
that spills over us
every afternoon.
You are so near me
that your shadows can empty themselves
into mine.
You are so distant
that my shadows stretch
like streets to find you again.
I want to find you
sitting with a half-smoked cigarette
saying, “I miss your eyes too.”