Days of Being Wild
We sat, you and I, with poetry in our laps
looking up at the evening sky.
I said: the blue sky reminds me of you.
You said: the breeze reminds me of us,
our wings, the freedom to soar.
These are our days of being wild.
On the balcony, you drank coffee.
I followed the cup to the edge of your lips,
you looked over.
You know our lips were made to be wild.
And then that moment,
that moment when you looked over,
stretched itself out, yawned
and curved into a sleepy smile.
You smell of cumin and raw mint,
and you know? Your sleepy smile
might just wake up and grow a tail.
You like tails.
You told me and I wanted to draw you close.
Close like cumin-scented truth.
Pink flowers are resting by my bed.
This morning the sun, that old clown,
licked me out of sleep and whispered:
This is it. These days
are dragging their wild tails in the sand,
making tracks, our own pathways.
There’s no hiding our wings.
These are our days. Being wild.