Sandy Benitez

Inside the fractured bone white pages
of a hardbound book of excursions
I discovered your maps, memoirs
of personal thoughts, the curve of your pen
and couldn´t put the book down.

The saffron lamp from overhead
spilled its melting stream of light
until all I tasted was your rare spice
and all I wanted was to be an insomniac,
forever walking the earth with nowhere to go.

Ceramic cups of cold, black coffee
settled on the bedside dresser
like a shipwreck containing precious cargo
yet to be discovered or coveted.
I wanted only to drink you in slow sips.

Your words settled easily
to the bottom of my dark ocean;
anchors that kept me afloat
when I felt as though I were drowning
in a blue room with black and white photos

of countries I would never visit
and cities I would never see except in dreams.
I dreaded the thought of nearing the end
of your chapter and finding only a blank page;
a return to fables and lost continents.