Manual

        This is how I begin to fall in love:
it all starts with walking
with him,
in a sparse moonlight
and scarely more drizzle,
some ganja, some music,
and small steps.
Little things.

        This is how I hold back:
walking three feet asunder
while he asks,
'Do you know what is going to happen?'

        This is how I fall out of love (a):
a phone call from you, far away,
telling the story of a storm and a Jewish house in Boxburg
where you stayed a night, and read Camus.

        This is how I fall out of love (b):
a couple of folk musicians from Shantiniketan, 
friends of friends,
staying up all night to the sound of khomuk and dotaara.

        This is how I fall back in love:
the sound of your voice in my ear,
        — unmediated by head phone, ear phone, mobile phone —
and your hand in mine,
your knee under the table,
your laugh like a child’s.
Looking at you,
just looking.
Absent little things.

        This is how I live.

And when you tell me you are going to travel 
some more this summer,
and 
“Backpacking across Europe!” I say,
And you say, “I have to buy a backpack, actually.”
I forget all else and laugh full and loud.

        This is how I survive the distance.