I write you, when I can't have you near me:  Sketch you out in hurried, flowing script on loose leaf paper

and the blank back pages of books,   Hotel bibles, especially. 







Do you dream of a self portrait ?

What kind of tribute are you wishing for - what is the evidence you want to hold onto ?  


My gift to you is words; will always be words

A description of morning sunlight on your face 

the china white of your bare shoulders

the way your fingertips undo buttons as if they were locks

yours and mine  








If you followed the path I've been traveling, you'd find yourself in each hotel room, 

affectionately rendered in vibrant prose, then tucked back in the drawer, 







all words in italics from beatrice