A Night's Call

it is five a.m and his voice is a hymn i composed to honour my body. his history is now mine, and I have sewn myself to his favourite memory. his baritone is cinnamon flavoured - the words, crushed blueberries he has plucked out of the garden of his skin and from which I will make the most insatiable type of wine. the smoke billowing from his mouth is my scent - the ittar I adorn my name with, and this phone is the bridge between our beds - the miles that separate our worlds, he asks me if I know how long it takes to fall in love. Just long enough for him to say hello.