ANOCHE SOÑÉ CONTIGO
Touch is the first language and the last, and it always tells the truth ― Margaret Atwood
Last night I dreamed of you
stopped on the edge of pine woods
bent over, leaning on your knees.
Your breath hot and deep,
muscles slicked, carved out in relief.
You were laughing with a friend.
I couldn’t see your smile,
shadowed by a scrub of twigs, sharp with resin,
nor hear your words
above the restless vibration of a hundred cicadas,
the snap of a Castilian landscape, tinder-dry,
volatile as touch-paper.
If you had moved towards me
I would have rested my head on your collarbone;
felt your slowing heartbeat through
damp cotton under my palm and
touched the trickle of sweat with my fingertips
travelling the length of your spine.
About the Creator
Stephanie Ginger
Writer, screenwriter, poet, playwright, journalist. I love the drama of life: long, short, on the page or on the screen but always character-driven.
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Comments (4)
Thanks Peeps! I really appreciate your support in my writing. 🤗
This needs more reads. It's so gorgeously melancholic. This encapsulates the entire emotion of the poem for me --- "the snap of a Castilian landscape, tinder-dry, | volatile as touch-paper."
Nice poem and cool pic.
Lovely, I love the tinderbox cracked of your atmosphere.