Strange Magic

Tonight we are sitting on the rooftop again, surrounded by the sweet scent of Santa Maria and chamomile rising and perfuming the air. Here in the canopy, silhouetted by the early summer moon, amongst palm trees and singing geckos, I lose myself in the intensity of your gaze, the cadence of your sotto voce voice reading Neruda, learning and relearning the meaning of the word heartbreak. 

In the waiting darkness, your thoughts turn east, but I am inevitably drawn back to this city full of light, where we are together, but somehow still a million miles apart. Pressed against your shoulder, I think of you and your sly, entrancing smile, those sleepy blue-green eyes that reflect the colors of the evening sea, and I miss it already, the same way I miss the warmth of your fingertips along my spine, the vibration of your laughter that resonates through my bones. These are strange magic nights, my dear, where you fall in love so easily and too late. I love you, the way I love the world at times: briefly, but with every fiber of my being.