As the sun dips in late June, the twilight air around the building seems to lighten; windows stretch outward and open to the world and lawn. The middle-aged black man who is sitting on the floor of his basement is going a bit grey, and yes, he also wears glasses. Two jobs chop at his days and sleep but he adores his big tv and mighty speakers. His green 1987 Jaguar has an in-dash tape deck and he keeps it safely parked in the garage that he shares with the dancer from the third floor. His “day” car–the beat one, the one with rust–that car is outside, subject to elements and use.

Inside, the middle-aged black man has his back propped against the couch.  It is Saturday, 8pm.

He is watching Don Juan deMarco, watching all the way till the end, watching while the credits roll, watching while song kicks in. Toward the end of the second refrain, the middle-aged black man begins to quietly sing harmony with Bryan Adams: “So tell me have you ever really/ really really ever loved a woman?” His glasses reflect the light from the screen and his eyes are wide behind them.  He raises his head as he sings a high note. “Have you ever loved a woman…”

I’ve been thinking a lot about you this morning, about how much I love you.

It’s like my muscles love you, with the way they ache for you and want to reach out for your face and hands, to touch and hold you.

My very bones request your presence, ask for your attention, for the weight of your body, of your love. My mind’s eye…it too is in love with you. I can tell because of how it is focused on an image of you, how it has memorized your eyes and seems to spend hours on end replaying pictures of you laughing, standing, smiling, moving.

And, of course, my heart. My heart loves you, loves our past with eyes of forgiveness, our present with eyes excitement and our future with eyes of faith.

I’m hanging curtains on a Saturday in a sundress.  White dress and red curtain.   A lover’s on my mind and succulent.   For a second, probably because of my perch, I think of the termite nests stashed high in the jungle trees.  And the stench of mangroves.  And how the jungles by the beaches look like the ocean has splashed over them and scattered it’s debris.  Glaciers leave rocks behind–balanced on cliffs, strewn on desert floors–with the same randomness. It’s like the giants of the dusty earth are playing marbles.  And the ocean rolls back after kissing the jungle and leaves a whole bay well lit at midnight. And suddenly, there I am, in a warm Caribbean bikini, lazy.  The kayak bounces and my rower doesn’t move when I lie back on his feet and stare straight up.  A plain old sky, caked with stars.  My desire is my secret.  Just between me and the stars and the lit bay and a whole slew of memories of times I wanted to reach out.  But. Back to this Saturday.  And this sundress, very white against my dark legs. And this window, eons from a jungle and a sleepy lover under netting and a mango. It all works. Somehow.

We all stopped fighting a few years ago. The throwing stopped and there was little poetry left. Suddenly, it had slowly become about average hangovers and average snakes among average weeds. We stopped the bedroom hopscotch and crippling verses but I can see them all if I close my eyes and feel my feet on the carpeted stage.   There was a stare that felt like sinking ice and I wouldn’t surrender it ever, nor would I do it again.

And we stand now, miles apart, single file, in a marching salute to pool sides and flailing love.

If I could, ours would be a wicked goodbye, terse words then silence, maybe a wave at the door as we leave through opposite sides of San Fran hotel room.