I remember kissing you through the window of that house you rented; you on the boards you stained yourself and all that light in your hair like fallen blossom. The roads around us carried heavy traffic in the mornings bright as red apples and I never wanted to give in to the commute except each day led back to you in your house. I remember hot nights you opened your font door to catch a breeze and we sat drinking J & B, you smoking Drum and talking about Frida Kahlo or Middlemarch and us reading poems, later making love in your room where the light promised always to come. This was when I first loved you like the morning loves a hint of sun, like the evening loves a clear slate sky with stolen stars, like the summer night loves the heady smell of rain on tar. I remember the sound of you more riveting than Daisy, your throaty oh yes and more; you were not as delicate as a flower, stronger, more beautiful than that, more like the day that holds the flower. This was when I first loved you as a place loves the time it happens in and lovers who’ve not met turn their heads just right and suddenly the gods are kind and they toss love from Valhalla or Olympus like a gorgeous, gorgeous net.