Afternoon in the Arctic


The afternoon, with
her warmth and slow
winds, tell me stories
of the city: dull
and transient, full of lights.
Of past lovers trying
to talk, is her favorite.

Your face is most
deviant, out of place
in these hours of easy music.

You told me of new
friends and forgotten hobbies
while I have nothing to
share except verses of poems
I half understand but find beautiful.

I remember your hair like children playing
on my face as you lean on my chest,
we would exchange secrets like
breathing.
Now, every word
conceals another, every
sentence masking an emotion.

“Afternoons” you said, “are getting awfully
warm.” I’m sweating myself but it
feels cool beneath my skin like rain
embracing me.

“You know,” I replied, “ in the Arctic,
they have twenty hours of daylight.”

They even have to check their watches
to know if it’s time
to rest.

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