on endless love
Aiding and abetting my shadow, I caress her
down off my shoulders. Trying to rub out knots
of the day, away on bark like a deer in the rut.
Standing beside her on our parapet, we watch
the scene below unfold in vast arrays of paper
leaves. Busy scribbling, and packaging up
their goodbyes in tiny red suitcases
on display in a grand lobby.
We breathe, somewhere between the depth
and contrast of rustling and bustling of those
who find seasons a bother, and those who circle
the same park each afternoon before two,
managing to become lost in wonder every time.
I don’t recall much about that year.
Only the important details.
How the temperature of your palm
was always the precise one mine needed.
The way your hand clutched
with a delicate, bittersweet embrace all its own.
How I tried to match your stride
when we walked, in hopes
that our footsteps
would tame the extra
out of our introversion.
How we were no more significant
than painted white pickets
in a forest of birches, passing fingers
through silvery slats between
then, now, and what’s infinitely chasing.
How time passed with you
in an hourglass, endlessly
erasing and rebuilding us.
My shadow nods her agreement,
and we share the thickened silence
of contemplation as the ink of night
beckons a rewrite.
Shaking her out once more,
I allow her to slip back onto me.
We agree to take another lap
through winter, and she knows
the fists I shove into pockets
are seeking the warmth of fingers
to clutch again
As something that resembles
solid, to twine
with all these wings
into our nest.