He’s naked
kneeling before the embers
blowing softly
There isn’t enough kindling
You offer up old road maps
with destinations that no longer exist
He moves the logs
and his hands are dirtier than
you’ve ever seen them
He will taste like smoke when
he embraces you
You now offer paper
from your pad
not with your notes–
the blank pages
filled only with promise
The smoke will still rise
the log will be red
underneath
long after he’s asleep
still naked
his hands smelling like you.
What a lovely, lovely poem. Very evocative, especially the “taste like” and “smelling like” lines.