Moon at Half Past Noon

Your laugh was a sudden downpour
on the parched soil of my solitude.

We mixed our music on one shared speaker,
our bookshelves a slow, willing fusion.
You hated cilantro; I learned to grow it
just for the pleasure of picking it out for you.

We were sure we had invented a new sense—
a taste for the scent of you in a room,
a magnetic pull in the shared, quiet air.