Vene May

On good days, I do not think 

of you as the sum of your pixels. 

 

I’ve taken to religiously 

recording your body in motion 

similar to how artists 

bring life to a painting with different 

shades of the same colour. 

during the moments of 

silence when 

I cannot feel your 

heat, I write your eyebrows

as a shade of hot Americano

the way they lift and furrow

in fluid motion molten 

on my lips, and reread

paragraphs where your arms

raised from a yawn 

build themselves as 

overhead bridges 

burnt from the noon sun.

​