for CKW
The boy who doesn’t eat chorizo fits his head under my chin.
His laugh in the palm of my hand and I reside in the small of his back.
He taught me to breathe through my nose and
I learned.
He finds the spot, the shady corner
of my neck’s afternoon, where breeze is paralyzing
and “sensation” is not how I wanted to say it.
The way tongues can taste like knowing what you deserve.
Feeling my chest,
he reminds me of the time we do not have left to spare.
Waiting for my kiss, he furrows his brow.
We gain more from a goodbye that a hello.
And I could say farewell in any romance.
He would know the root.
