I wasn't the one you were
waiting for by the window,
a glass of wine in hand each night,
the same song playing in your head,
the one about never dancing again.

I heard nothing but the rain that night.

Watching you mouth the words,
the silent chorus swelling in your chest,
raising some ghost through you
in every place I can't see into.

The air moved with your every step,
accentuating the stillness between us,
the contracting space I can barely take
before your hands graze me.

Before you stain my collar with wine,
a wet crimson kiss,
my neck marked with gentle teeth
as you undo one button at a time.

The ocean was still in your hair,
the coast's mist left a vague kiss
lingering all over your skin,
but you still shivered against me
as if winter never fled from your bones.

I was too passive to ask you more,
scared that saying anything else
would reach you inside the way music does,
the notes would reveal how much I want you.

Some other song plays a melody on your lips,
while your kiss is still alive on mine,
the rhythms enshrouding you every night,
warming you beyond barriers I've touched
but can never break through,
are like a stranger's fingerprints
I see all over you in the dark.

I wasn't the one you were
waiting for by the window,
a glass of wine in hand,
the name I could barely pronounce
that rolled off your tongue with ease.

A perfect example of what
we blur in translation.

I heard nothing but the wind that night.

And the way you were mine
just for a little while,
watching you mouth the words
to another song you loved,
the one about how a sweet surrender
is all that you have left to give.

The mountains were still in your eyes,
wintergreen flecks along valleys
clinging to warmth after sunset,
shivering against me as if every inch
of my skin reminded you of late autumn.

I was too passive to bring up that first night,
when all I heard was your breath,
the way a quiet exhale can reach inside
and calm another's gathering storm.

It would've been too much to tell you.

Some other song plays and flutters on your lips,
while your kiss is a nocturnal secret on mine,
the rhythm pressing and shaping me,
but never matching the prints
I read all over you in the dark.

I wasn't the one you were
waiting for by the window,
a glass of wine in hand,
another song rendered mute,
the one about how they don't
love you like I love you.

I was too passive to confess that I saw
myself in that song just as much as you did,
too scared to tell you I still see the ghost
brimming around the air you move through.

I still taste another's fruit on your lips,
sweet red wine and a flavor close to yours,
and the way you are all
mine for just a little while.

It would've been too much to tell you.