I have not once known what love meant.
In Los Angeles, without warning, it was clear;
in the wintry cold of December,
standing amid swaying skyscrapers,
all shadowed and light-hearted, closing
their gaping lips over my clandestine head in hand;
ciphered constellations, small nook endeavors,
my bold potions, and then it was love until midnight
in yellowed delirium, strewn forgetful, I cried
to my heart to the north of cars and I cried
to my heart to the ocean of cars and took
my feet across the empty street
littered with our truth, the magic of it, home
and hidden, your persistent scent I breath
into morning only to find it gone, and you
the taste of echoes, pining.