I miss the taste of the milk you warmed up,
Which cradled me to sleep — honeyed and full-fat —
Then when your hugs did not grate my heart.
The smell of coffee stains in your empty cup,
And the force — of your familiar grip and pat,
Then when these held up the roof over “home” —
The wide expanse — of your desk — the art,
The clamps and the maps never to be close-up —
Then when love was safety — awe — not combat.
The hot metal of a tank in the desert,
Fingers — burning — photos that roam,
Then when memories did not hit like shells.
Then, the milk — now it burns the tongue — like Rome,
And phones ring with country codes like chiming bells.
Then when,
Then when,
then when.
