I feel it through the seasons.

I met him when the sky was falling in marshmallows on a mountain
his face in the bed, a bottle by his side, twenty empty glasses abandoned somewhere and all that I can see to tell the story is his eyes are closed.

Silence.
Morning has come and my head pounds with the rains of the night before.
The tourists have trickled out by the end of Tuesday morning, leaving trails of snow behind.

I light a cigarette and tendrils drift into the air, burning to ash, mixing with my breath.

No one but the two of us.

And I can't see his body beneath those bulky winter clothes.

The first snowflake of morning flutters past my eyes, the weather between him and me.

I remove the jacket. I retreat indoors and push the curtains back.
(Is he watching me watching him or is it merely the air that makes him breathe like that?)

__

Gasp for air and I come to surface.

The bikini is too loose and the lace has come undone at the edges.
The sunlight makes patterns through the trees on the sand and the water reflects the distant memories of summer. 

The rocks catch the sounds of heat and they echo. Echo.

His body's arched and his arms look soft.
Sunlight toasts his skin, illuminates the muscle.

Is he watching me watching him or is it merely his dreams that make him look like that?

So beautiful, you can touch it.

Just one moment and one wave from his hand, and the want shifts to like

just another moment and a look in his eyes and the want shifts to love.

Does he even
feel my gaze?

I will project this until I die.