That She May Find Me Among These Distances Poem by Jaime Jesus Borlagdan

The summer beneath her skin
wakes sleeping gardens beneath mine.
Never will I be calm or waters be without ripples.

In grief are many poems about sunsets
but on her cheeks alone bleeding reds twice.
How will I be calm or have waters without ripples?

Notice my hands, her textures
are alive in all my fingers.
Never will aging sing in my tree houses!

Never will I be calm or waters be without ripples
or nights without pillows heavy with songs
of her name, her skin, and the summer beneath.

How can I remember her, when I have not forgotten.
I am empty with her, but without her
the world is filled with Chopin and drowned men.

The waters in our eyes― does it just remind you
how the sea, to take the bruised body back yearns?

I am empty with her, but without her
I trace the bed at night for depths pressed by absent
stars.

And what relief is longing, when it reminds me
she is not here, but here is not with her
and where she is, is not with me, is lost
in the burden of arriving. For the world is heavy
with restraint and Imagination is a mascular horse.

In the unborn days we are times of rapid waters.
I am empty with her, but without her
I repeat her voice until the flute of my throat
is breaking, is telling of wide fields, of enormous skies.

The summer beneath her skin
awaken sleeping gardens beneath mine
never will I be calm or waters be without ripples.