dreams made flesh

the atlantic ocean
separated me once from
a boy who in a dream
wrote me a note
ending it with
“ps, i want to fuck you”
like it was an endearment
and i could still be innocent enough to blush.
back then he hid behind
offensive language and a
few days worth of scruff
like he could disguise the fact
that those lips were only made for poetry.
the view from my hotel suite
showed me a skyline
even more beautiful at night
when it was lit up with artificial lights,
billboards written in a language not my own,
and all i could do was lean my head
against the cool glass,
feeling a little dizzy from
the light height and you.
i sat in a corner with the hotel’s penandpaper
trying to describe the delicate
curve of his cheek in mere ink
when i remembered it with taste, touch,
and the mingled smells of sweat and soap.
my hand raised involuntarily
to trace my own skin,
imagine he would do so one day
when i returned.

a/n: how i remember my first night in thailand.