Sometimes I am comfortable that my love for you is now defined by the lack of your presence.
I wake up in the morning and you are not there.
I stretch my body under the imagined gaze of your eyes, which is heavier, more deliberate.
I cook enough for both of us and your housemates and feed instead my sisters and my soul.
I am full of words in my own language about love and intimacy—words I will share with you like toothpaste, toothpaste. I like bending English—the language of administration and rules, someone said—until it is pliable with emotion, liquid and unpredictable in strength.
I want to say deep things to you in Spanish—lately, Naruda knows my heart—but ill-proficiency reminds me to find my own language of love; one more unfixed and generous, less saturated, self-important. His words are heavy with conditions and I wish for mine only to hover in the air you breathe, curtain the uncertainty of our next physical proximity, but not cloud it.
I go to bed at night and you are not there, except for the shirt you gave me and the space I make, as if you were, for dreaming of your skin and the way our bodies fit. Sometimes I am comfortable that my love for you is now defined by the lack of your presence, but mostly I just miss you and rope together words that confirm and deny the ocean miles between us.