far off – in a poppy field somewhere
or, like film stars, in a mustard field
before we clutch each-other’s bodies in an embrace.
I’m still writing your name over and over – a dozen
dozen times – on a sheet of paper, sipping coffee
you made for us before dozing off.
Tonight, it is made the way I sometimes prefer it
made – sugar, light, and with a hint of butter.
People don’t often believe when you tell them you take coffee
before bed; it’s almost a taboo
and not in the natural order of things.
But once we’re deeper into this night, it won’t matter.
It’ll only be us – you, dreaming, in my arms; and me,
watching your calm, listening
to you
breathe.
or, like film stars, in a mustard field
before we clutch each-other’s bodies in an embrace.
I’m still writing your name over and over – a dozen
dozen times – on a sheet of paper, sipping coffee
you made for us before dozing off.
Tonight, it is made the way I sometimes prefer it
made – sugar, light, and with a hint of butter.
People don’t often believe when you tell them you take coffee
before bed; it’s almost a taboo
and not in the natural order of things.
But once we’re deeper into this night, it won’t matter.
It’ll only be us – you, dreaming, in my arms; and me,
watching your calm, listening
to you
breathe.
Jayant Kashyap has received nominations for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net, and has published two pamphlets and a zine, Water (Skear Zines, 2021). His work appears in POETRY, Magma and elsewhere.
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