Daylight

I smell you on my clothes;
on my hands.

All voices scratch as cat claws on bedposts.
Their contrast is yours.

You linger here...

My hands, my tounge,
my thoughts desire to create
and gift.

I draw for you;
write you poems.

My heart translates foreign texts.
My brain picks up clues in the context.

Nerves are shot,
bleached by the penetrating white heat
of each morning spent rising with the sun.

Slightly frightened:
this desire for constant interaction.

Slightly overwhelmed:
these feelings, this joy have been foreign so long.