The Scotto Grotto (org)

Flipping through a book of maps
I come to rest on one of a land not so far from here, a place I’ve never been.
The location has a simple name, one that might make a good one for a pet.
I can see the home of the one I care most for, near the bay, not so far from a lighthouse.

I touch that point on the page, and feel the pulse of my finger there
beating, my heart-rate pressing in slow beats over her city
the tip warming with blood and love, I raise the pointer to my lips and kiss it softly,
imagining that she’s there, a tiny amoeba inside a ridge of my fingerprint.

my hand brushes along the page,
tracing a footpath along the beach with her
walking with shoes off watching the sea lap the shore.
a place where we would warm a bench, play horseshoes.

she could point out the old barn
the big tree in the field
a friendly horse or two
the place where she sings sometimes with her friends.

the sky is gray there, now
air getting cold, wind kicking up
I give her my jacket and my arm
the feeling of her close to me is better than anything else imaginable.

Everything I see reminds me of her
how she’d react, what she’d say
expressions, sounds, scents and emotions.
She touches every cell of my being, permeating, lightening me.