Dusk and the Bougainvillea

Bees serenading the citrus blossoms
                                                        and me.

I lean against the house, feet cool on the adobe tiles

in the long hallway,
the wind traipsing bougainvillea blossoms magenta across my lilac toes.

I wait silently
listening for footsteps or voices or cooing doves,
listening for my own heartbeat to grow soft.

When I am satisfied that I am


alone


I say it into the heavy dusk:

I love you.

And then again:

I love you.
I love you, I love you.

I taste the salty caramel of it on my tongue,

velvet words hovering hummingbird-
winged eternal.

Letting the words dance up my esophagus, I hope,
might unravel the tempest of my soul's haute sting.

I wait for a phantom to appear so I may know at what feet
to lay my quivering love.

But no phantom appears.
No phantom ever appears. No face ever illuminates the night.

There is just only the moon chiding my childishness;
just the bougainvillea rustling, gentle kissing wind-caressed.

Just the doves' sleepy tittering, "It's never so easy. You
already know it wouldn't be so easy as that, not for humans."

Just bees serenading the citrus blossoms
                                                                  and me.