Heat-induced goosebumps, strands of hair shed on wispy bedsheets,
you and I loved with the fever of a thousand and one Julys.
This one tastes different already, this watery, bloodless summer
void of eager touch, as bland as the dust under a desert moon.
These days, I have too much breath for my own liking
and these nights, I wish I had a body to inflate.
A shoulder to bite without breaking skin, threadlike veins
snaking across a forearm like English ivy, an asymmetrical birthmark
like a pile of spilled cinnamon above the navel.
Yours.
How it tasted less like cinnamon and more like cardamom,
which was living proof that the body is a false prophet,
that it is capable of turning disciples into skeptics,
that all love is senseless.
It is July now
and I am remembering those afternoons and mornings,
cardamom seasoning the tongue, how I called it communion
and called you my God.
