You showed me how to burn, corazoncito

Remember when you would read me poetry in the mornings?
Un cafecito 
in my hands,
my eyes
fixated on your lips
mouthing words
written by revolutionaries.
Lovers, really.
“Yo, como tú, amo el amor…”


Years later, I’d find myself in the stark in-between-ness of the San Salvador airport
stopping over
to catch a plane to Lima.

I walked into the bookstore, lazily looking through the selection
when I see the poet.
Not you,
only him.
But inevitably,
unequivocally,
You.

And I smiled through my sleepiness
just like I used to do in the mornings
when I drank my cafecito under the covers
with you next to me —
your hand heavy on my thigh,
your mind heavy on someone else.