01:32

I met you by way of a passionate, feathered fountain pen.

Hearing you in the precious notes

of Nina Simone and James Blunt.

But if time could stand still

I would stop the clock at 1:32 a.m.,

hold my breath,

and dive deep splash into the light

Of your book of letters,

corresponding with your day dreams,

while you watch me do breaststroke alongside

righteous rocks and soulful seaweed.

They say a way to a man's heart is through his stomach,

well what about a woman's?

You seen "Como Agua Para Chocolate?"

Obviously you had, because there was something

inspiring in your cooking.

Something in your Egyptian dark eyes

Something in your long fingers

Something in the way

you asked, You okay?

Slowly,

pressing reverently

lips onto paper --

politically, or roughly

(as when you recite poetry) --

despite the unjust

callousness of cement scraping

the side of your face

and if the revolution

you spoke of so passionately happened at

1:32, (because I'm quite sure it did)

I was your

expressive vessel. I was your cop killer.

So laying here,

as I am gently rocked

by buoyant blue moon rays and your brown arms

please breathe a succulent sigh of freedom in my ear.

This is like something out of book

I like how you didn't say movie.