Home

It was 3 in the morning
and I, droopy eyed,
from sleepless nights,
stared at the same empty page.
In my mind swirled images
of bodies intertwined
hips easing to a slow grind
deep, low moans
like those of a jazz man's bass.
Bodies created music
I've never heard before,
each heartbeat
reverberating throughout my body
setting the page
to the melody of an unwritten song.

The blank pages taunted me
as I was sure I tasted
rich dark chocolate on my lips
after leaving strawberry kisses
on mocha skin.
I imagined me laid out
like a buffet of international delicacies;
try a little bit of this
a little bit of that
even things never tried before.

And still no words
could begin to describe
the sights, sounds, tastes,
all unfamiliar
yet conured up in my fantasies.
Instead, the black pages
soon filled up with memories
of Sunday mornings
room glowing with the warm sunlight
of long summer days.
Coco Classicos
Ana Gabriel's raspy voice
a short distance away.
A car alarm, the latest reggaeton,
the occasional 'que lo que'
added to the soundtrack;
the title track
the familiar rocking
of mattress springs,
headboard against the wall
setting the pace like conga beats.

The words smelled of
salchichon y queso frito
sizzling on a pan
un plato de mangu
washed down with morir soñando
Words told of a love
like mamí's sanchocho
same recipe
but each time
better than the last.

See I fantasized of a love
that was out of this world
yet a love that existed
only in my mind.
So my heart refused
to allow my mind
to tell the page lies.
My mind wanted to escape
disappear to a foreign place
where a different love was possible.

But my ehart wanted to stay
where it knew the faces, the places,
be able to map out
each birthmark, each scar
each bruise
like they were your old stompin' grounds.

My mind conjured up images
of something new
but the pages filled with
words that spoke only truth:
that love with you will always be,
because your love is home.

©R.Bello 4/1/09