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Personal Note:
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Poem
I still have that dream of us
on what would be my last day in Uruguay
sitting on a low stone wall
overlooking the vast sea
while the sun is chased away behind us
and the wind gently brushes the hair from your shoulder
to tease at my arm.

Between us is a slice of cake; Chajá, like promised
picked up while strolling Montevideo 
the real tour being your form in three dimensions
a whisper of peach still on both of our tongues
still secretly wondering if it would taste any differently
if stolen off of lips instead.

Conversation scarce and unneeded
lulled in favor of kicking legs and staring out at birds
as they glide from blue and into orange and magenta blooms
all the while hyper aware
of how charged your long, lithe fingers seem
and how mine, coarse and calloused, are busy supporting my weight
as I lean back with my shoulders
and itch to crawl them closer.

Just the wind carrying unspoken wishes
in a moment so serene and encapsulated
in the lives of youths coming together in ebbs and flows
light crashes of waves 
against a smooth stone wall.

"Can I kiss you?"
not knowing how but moving forward
brushing brows and cheeks with the pads of a thumb
and landing on a chin to hold
so that a featherlight brush might be delivered 
with the proper mix of shy yet the most bold they've ever been.

And peach does taste especially sweet
when bitten off juicy lips.
As how salty air becomes a balm
when breathed fresh between two pairs of lungs

Though time is short and shy and chaste
this moment lingers like a false memory in a bottle
thrown from the wall to be lost at sea
a message to the future when this may be realized
and held precious like a gem and not fragile glass.

I don't want to taint this beautiful delusion
with the reality that is far too unkind
But now if I visit I fear we would both be ghosts
me, an intrusion 
a foreigner retracing the steps of a familiar stranger
mourning the echoes of memories
resenting the setting sun behind the low stone wall

and the parting gift of an overdue first kiss
stolen not by the warm summer wind
nor even the strains of money nor pains of distance
nor "best laid plans"
but by something as simple and foolish
as wanting too much
the wrong kind of slip of the tongue.
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