For all the eleven hours between us,
and all of the moments shared in between.
At breakfast, you tell me about dinner,
then you watch me make my way to work
while you wait for sleep to come.
Past midnight here and midday there
are our everyday hours: short,
too quickly greeted, too soon ended,
but constant —
like birds that chirp all around us during humid Amazonian mornings
or the smell of bread that follows us from the boulangeries in the streets of Paris
or the tickle of the third glass of wine on the lips, in whatever continent we taste it.
The sound, the smell, the taste – it lingers, leaves a trace, constant, it remains.
Like an image of you in my mind—
Ever smiling, ever moving, ever vibrant,
Ever there and never quite.
I keep your memory there,
Where the seconds lose meaning
And the hours need no counting.
Because at midday here or past midnight there,
we are nowhere there yet everywhere we wish to be:
a good morning greeting
almost as if you were breathing
within the reach of my fingertips—
soon enough, buena onda, indeed,
soon enough, it will be.