For me, it gets dark at three.
Inbetween smokey mouthfuls I wonder what you might see,
Through wide, infantile eyes
as mine lay parallel to a screen.
For you, there is a wider view.
Across a thousand miles of green and blue,
My absent sun casts rays at you,
Soaking your skin with salt and dew.
For me, I feast on memory.
Of endless pillows and what might be.
And feeling queen of the city
As our lips pressed on your balcony.