You feed me olives in the old city. Yes, love is a sort of blindness,

but here on this walk, I notice everything—bougainvillea,

river the color of wine, a cathedral outgrowing minarets—

not because we’re awake but because we share this field.

Look at the boys disappear into moonlight. Kiss my eyelids. Hold my chin.

Tomorrow, Granada. Tomorrow, beers and espresso and sangria.

It won’t matter. Read me a paragraph, I never finished Crime and Punishment.

“The whole question here is am I a monster, or a victim myself?”

I’m tired of walking. You teach me we don’t have to answer:

we’ve crossed the river three times already.

Something about instinct is so authoritarian.

I mean, why you? (Because there is a boat, and another river).

You laugh. Our language: an interrupted dream.

I mean there is no God but God, and we come from the same ruins.

Tell me where albaricoque comes from, and naranja.

A history of apricot trees under your window,

your family’s Sunday ritual of fresh orange juice.

Imagine we lived three decades without hearing each other,

and now, on our last night, we see a Flamenco show. Two women,

hands like arrows, digging through ground with a song.

Such sorrow. Why are you crying?

Because the dancers are so beautiful and we’ll never find them again.

Because how else to describe this? We were found. We hadn’t been looking.

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