Walking towards a freshly painted house, its color a certain shade of blue, with patches of white still showing through, my nostrils flare and fill with turpentine fumes, whose scent soon grows indistinct as I drift away into evening light,

thinking this is how I approach you too, first thing after waking, you breath low and crackling with sleep, your body the hue of sky as it is breaks open with light, your scent of fruit, flaming in the half dark, a dawn firefly visible even before I touch you under the blanket -

O, why do I keep forgetting not to touch your dream wet body yet? Why do I keep wanting more than a certain sufficiency of sound, vision, and smell?