Unintentional Revisits

the love letters written
on stormy nights —
the heart wild with desire,
maddened by grief.

The halts were many,
but I chose you—
your breasts to rest
my weary head on;
your sea-like mind to afloat
my capsized boat.

It’s winter in these parts,
and I’m cold —
the fire must be lit.

What blazes me is known,
but the walk to it is

But with a little warmth
of your breath
on my neck,
and a gentle pull of my hand
on your hair which smells
of fenugreek bathed in sandalwood,
I could make the distance.