berlin 2016, the good part.

No touch, no,
and no kiss.
Nothing but a note, jotted in the early hours of an august day, professing what I knew you already knew.
An open window in which we sat and smoked for 4 nights and days,
an ache in my chest that I haven’t felt in years,
and no mementos but a memory.
The memory of the first time our eyes met, and the look on your face–
that of a startled baby bird having fallen out of its nest mid-sleep.
I flew home, and you’ve flown god knows where by now.
I never want to see you again, for I’m not in love with you:
I’m in love with an idea of a memory of a feeling of an experience.
And it’s left me quaking and it’s rendered me mute more often, lately,
as I try to extract you, somehow, in silence.