The small, older man selling photographs
on a Friday night side street
laughed at us, kindly,
at the way we spoke Spanish to each other,
He spoke English
taught us a few palabras- slang, mostly.
“Miras a la luna,” I pointed to the sky.
It looked different here, tilted.
“Si, es bonita,” not knowing the words for more,
though little else needed.
Some days, the Mexican sun made your hair a bit blonder,
the edges of your nose,
previously broken (though I never noticed before)
both sharpen and round
depending on the direction you angled.
At times our faces were closer than usual,
legs touching under the table without meaning to.
I want to kiss you,
tell you it could be so easy to love you.
When driving to Cancun, both of us half sleeping,
the road knocked our knees together, had our shoulders brush.