Inside the fractured bone white pages
of a hardbound book of excursions
I discovered your maps, memoirs
of personal thoughts, the curve of your pen
and couldnīt put the book down.
The saffron lamp from overhead
spilled its melting stream of light
until all I tasted was your rare spice
and all I wanted was to be an insomniac,
forever walking the earth with nowhere to go.
Ceramic cups of cold, black coffee
settled on the bedside dresser
like a shipwreck containing precious cargo
yet to be discovered or coveted.
I wanted only to drink you in slow sips.
Your words settled easily
to the bottom of my dark ocean;
anchors that kept me afloat
when I felt as though I were drowning
in a blue room with black and white photos
of countries I would never visit
and cities I would never see except in dreams.
I dreaded the thought of nearing the end
of your chapter and finding only a blank page;
a return to fables and lost continents.