Once, I met a boy
who longed to pluck the fruits
off the veiled garden of my lips,
told me he was born thirsty
and had been studying the
geography of bodies
how they reach for each other
in search of the living water.
But this is not a salvation story,
walk with me.
Somewhere in Asaba
my tongue will itch to lick the sun
my body will create more space
to entertain fingers,
& I will be another victim of curiosity.
I once trapped a shadow
in a love poem
& emailed it to the boy on the other
side of a letter—
it morphed into a god
and set a rainbow
across the skyline of his smile.
We became two distress calls
suddenly in need of each other.
& this is how we learned to yearn:
we cultured our hands to hold
enough of the world, just enough
to spark revolution in our heartbeats, and
convinced our touches that we were worth loving.
This was my original sin.