I can smell you in the page,
like the oil in your hair, moist
and warm in your words. Your breath
fills my lungs in every line.

And the sunlight grows sharper
as the syllables embrace my eyes.
Your memory is as crisp
as your five-year old letters

I kept in Gastambide.
I carry them in my head,
in the city’s paragraphs.
For one El Nino summer,

I woke up to watch the heat
eat up the tangible air
of your day-dream affection:
My room in burned white paper.