reading Leonard Cohen
makes me want to love her -
to fuck her and miss her
see what sadness is like with her,
whether it's a constant whisper of her name
or the weight of our bodies
sinking into the mattress

she holds me still in her gaze;
a dense summer heat,
their bright hazel a perfect replica
of the space under a great tree
where tangled branches
thrust into lush green leaves

and i love the way
she reads my poetry
her lips moving, tracing the lines
though i never catch a whispered phrase
the words collected on her tongue
just to slide across mine,
her fingers biting at my hips
a myriad of promises
won to the night.