Nathan AM Almeida

5 November 2019

I heard it, once. Heard it in the way
the dark arcs across the horizon and
the way the wind blows through the
pine needles on the shoreline at dusk.

I saw it, once. Mapped in the spaces between
the stars. I wrote your name in the snow
on the hillside. I saw your constellation in
the lines on the palm of my hand.

I tasted it, once. Tasted the gold
and the sunlight and the moonlight
and the starlight mulled like wine
and dripped down my throat like honey.

I smelled it, once. Smelled the sap
and the resin and the amber. Lemon
and hickory. Sage and cedar. Chestnut
and sea salt and mahogany.

I felt it, once. Twice. Once
was never going to be enough.