The last hill on my left was white
            Even at dusk, and leafless spires
            Marked my passage, every breath
            A shroud

            They kept saying it was all deceit,
            That kisses could never be innumerable,
            That desire had only so much steam,
            That there were other things

            Yet your wine was on my lips
            Long after we had fled,
            And on your lips, I knew, was mine

            I listened to the evening
            With its paring down, and then
            The night

            And as I traced my steps
            I stole a glimpse between the trees,
            My hunted huntress

            It was only a matter of time


            Emanuel E. García, 2014