Atlas of Longing

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Your hands 
once mapped my skin 
like a cartographer,
each touch discovering 
a new coastline, 
each fingertip annotating
 a geography of desire.

In every atlas,
oceans separate continents,
but we
built bridges 
out of sighs,
only to watch them crumble
like myths
too heavy to bear.

Now, 
love is not a country;
it is exile.

Yet even in this 
banishment,
i seek your face
among the aching
landscapes, 
across inlets
frozen in time, 
in the ruined cathedrals
of hunger and dreams.

q