Whispers
Updated: Mar 26

Dry lips to ebony locks,
she presses a kiss against my hair,
fleeting and chaste,
yet delicate.
A breath against my scalp,
warm against the cool night air
my mother inhales,
citrus shampoo and something sweet.
Mango.
Too sweet.
Too sweet to be the mangos of Vietnam,
the limbs tangled in branches
and soft skin against bark.
To be a slender hand
reaching, pulling, grasping
for warm red and orange.
Tell me more.
Though sleep tugs at my voice,
my mind is
awake.
A sigh and an arm wraps around me,
her body framing mine
like two crescent moons
hidden in the cover of night.