Despacito —  slowly.
The woman reminds us.
Despacito — slowly.
We don’t work it out; it is not work.
We are moving like a massage of sore muscles; smooth, gentle.
We are not told once, but rather over and over. So quickly we forget.
Despacito.

Now, alone in my room, I press my pen to paper — 
make something beautiful — 
I command my hand.

But it is only this woman in my mind.
The zing of her laughter.
The smell of clay, and the ache to create perfection, mold something worthy of admiration
and she’d only say,
despacito.