i have never found myself in poetry,
but i think i may have found myself in your arms
as we sit in your kitchen, waiting for the kettle;
your soft eyes and parted lips, sculpted by aphrodite
as you silently boil the water.
you have careful fingers as you pour the hot water
into two red, chipped mugs. i remember the
gentle pressure of those fingers twisted in my hair.
curled green leaves lay with small jasmine flowers,