And how

Yes how,
not why or when or what?
Only how is all that matters.

How will it be, when all of this is gone;
the rambling winds that carry your
thought to me
the jiving fire of togetherness
breaths away
in the lap of dusk?

How will it be when the summer fails
to return to my eyes and the
withered jassmine smell of
us smothers me?

How will it be when my tear drops
swim away with the mystic river?

How will it be when the lightness
of my shadow is soaked
in the salt of your absence?


How will it be when my sweat hunts
for your ocean eyes,
my fingers look for your almond-skin,
my tongue looks for an errant night?


Perhaps I will still write then,
about us,
on the cold desert sand
beneath the footsprints of time,
or lose my voice
as you walk to the light blowing
all of this to the wind.