Czech

I like how you whisper

most of the time. That it is easier to feel

your breath than to hear your voice, easier

to have you draw on me like a sleepy child does

on a moist window pane, inside a moving car on a long trip

looking at the night sky filled with southern stars,

aching to know if we are there yet.

I like how your words slip effortlessly, round,

like bubbles that burst softly once they reach my skin.

I like how your chest rumbles quietly and low, like a distant thunder

that I am not afraid of.

While you’re drifting into sleep laying on the cold morning sand, while we’re waiting for the sun to come, I like to peek inside your shirt into yourself.

I touch the bright blue muddy bottom of your sea,

I fish for soft and sharp shells alike.

I wash them in my hand with zesty moves.

I wish I could show you how beautiful they are, but I not that they’re not strictly yours nor mine to keep.