Breathing

I want to lay along side your shoulders, hips,

hands touching, just to feel your skin

against mine.

Lost in Translation

Andrew, you talked to me in a foreign language. Greeted me some mornings with a sigh in your sleep, the tug of sheets as you twisted away. I tried to guess the meaning of your down turned lips, wondered what it would take for us to overcome this language barrier. Translations, interpretations, only made your silences louder. And when we finally did brake through, Andrew, I only wished that we could go back to the quiet. On days where you wanted to talk, all I wanted to do was turn the radio on, sit peacefully, hand in hand, and listen to Damian Rice, Patrick Watson. Instead, you hurled words at me, nouns and verbs shattering against the apartment walls. On these days, everything was lost in translation.

l'heure bleue

it's dusk and the Paris skyline is smudged blue

grey silence like the muffled sound of traffic

beneath la Tour Eiffel we pause to listen

the pulse of the city is slow and rhythmic

grey silence like the muffled sound of traffic

it's the feel of two heart beats

the pulse of the city is slow and rhythmic

the weight of your body against mine

it's the feel of two heart beats

we exist in the in-between, no darkness

the weight of your body against mine

no daylight, only the smell of your perfume, your skin

we exist in the in-between, no darkness

a single perfect moment

no daylight, only the smell of your perfume, your skin

as the day folds into night

a single perfect moment

beneath la Tour Eiffel we pause to listen

as the day folds into night

it's dusk and the Paris skyline is smudged blue

Island Life

Naked in his studio, Jonah covers my belly in blues and greens so that, soon, South America spans half of my rib cage, Brazil rising with every breath. He forms mountain ranges, the Andes grow strategically out of stretch marks and in no time Costa Rica is on the verge of disappearing into the dip of my bellybutton, the Arctic cast into shadow by my breasts. As he works, Jonah talks to you, tells you in Portuguese how I've been craving pasteis de nata, almonds, the ocean. In Spanish he describes to you Chichen Itza, the salt flats of Bolivia and the beauty of La Amistad. He wonders what you'll want to see first. I tell him Canada, feel your tiny feet against the coastline of Vancouver Island, your heart beating, tremors beneath the surface.