grenache

we drink tea from small white cups,

in an orange grove,

at night,

in the summer.

because why shouldn’t this drink revive us?

because why shouldn’t we go on for hours?

we lie naked in the grass

and, afterwards,

i find the flaws on your skin,

and i revisit them

because i like them

and i know them by name.

we are young and our love is old.

we are old and our love is young.

the moon on your collar bone

reminds me of that piece of driftwood

i drew for you

because you didn’t want to remove it from its home.

when we peel back this night,

a burst of citrus:

one thousand falling bergamot stars and not one wish cast,

for we want what we have.