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When I leave you at your door
I walk back across the still dark town
to sounds of birds waking and complaining busses,
engines reluctant to start the day.
El panadero stops in front of a tienda
and pulls a crate of pan dulce from his van.
He has been up all night,
kneading, sprinkling sugar,
pulling full trays from warm ovens,
covered in the smells of his shop.
He nods at me, as if IÕm a fellow laborer.
I nod back, agreeing:
I have passed these hours caressing your back,
kissing your thin lips,
and dipping my face
into the fragrant curls of your hair.
Before I walk on, I say, "Nos vemos,"
which is half a prayer, that like el panadero
I should return to work each night
until my hands mold to your body
and my skin holds your scent.