When the painter on stilts
calls to me from above
to talk about color and time,
I hear only the whisper
of a lover past,
blue eyes and soft curls
his warm brown skin
against mine
practicing words out loud
as we drank spiced rum
from paper cups,
pointed to constellations
laid out on the ceiling
tu nombre es mi cielo, mi amor
your name is my heaven, my love
Poem ©2025, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you’ll love my book SLEEPING WITH GHOSTS, on sale now!
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