Her hands roam…
caress…
excite…
until I am the one who can’t stay quiet.
My sounds are deep and gruff.
They are words like “yes,” and “please,” and “more.”
They are a language she understands.
She listens. She is attentive.
She lets me return the favor.
I would stay
forever
in this turret
with her
if I could.
But where she sees white, I see black.
In the vastness between us,
there are infinite variants of gray.
I cannot stay in America,
cannot stay with her,
because somewhere,
between slate and silver and charcoal,
lies the destiny I was born to live.
After the moon has journeyed
beyond the window,
I ask her if we should go.
She whispers in my ear:
“Let’s stay a little longer.”
I keep expecting to feel regret,
a flood of guilt
regarding the choices I have made,
