serendipitously

the distance cuts me,
sword and warrior, armed in an instant
and its blood, like the road to Málaga,
like Morazán’s highways and mountaintops,
pounding through my heaving veins.
on this day, so far,
it’s all I see, the red of my eyelids, I’m living
mine and someone else’s pain.

my pain, your pain
is it the same?
is there a candle in the, deep in your chest
burning, mirrored in my own body’s celebration
and somber remembrance
of your embrace?
these dark words, they might pierce you too,
the sword and the warrior are quick to appear,
holding us hostage
and distant. 

but there’s a word,
it cuts kilometers down
and soldiers, too.
it stitches the lonely heart again into one piece,
mends and patches and holds
in place.
the word (I’m sure you’ve guessed)
is hope.

it’s hope, my dear,
in everything you are and that I am not.
in everything I am that you are not.
in everything that we together
stitch and weave.

and in everything you are, I see you:
yawns, and unexpected smiles.
honesty and chocolate.
fingers, eyelashes,
and sometimes tears.
clenched muscles, especially arms and legs.

and most of all I see you in love:
the love between strangers who hold the door open.
the love between friends who tease and console.
the love between lovers who need only a glance.

and our love, Osito,
took us to each of those places,
once strangers, then friends, then lovers,
and now…

dreamers
bruised by distance
but hopeful and so serendipitously in love.