still we travel you and I through space
of trees and concrete leaning into light.
we tell tales of places we’ve been
for a while wrapped around each other— limbs
you cannot see. they radiate and turn into
the crowns of trees. they are the rest of my arms
past two. they come and go and I forget
to count them every night. some I lose
in the skin of this century that lends me its body.
no matter how still we sit we are changed by
the sheer momentum of time. the acceleration
of memory. the cherries on my ears
with their leaves still on. a picture of us sitting
just as we were this afternoon— your coffee cup
full next to a bowl of apricots and my hands
hung words on the tree of hours. our past crumbling
turning to light to sticks and stones
the mind scatters over the fickle map of
this moment. re-membering. not of history
owned like a book we fear to close.
between us— a secret we keep
covered with our bodies. in the morning
I find you by the feel of your waking
while you wait for dreams to write
that part of you you leave behind. I walk past
the threshold. look back wave
press my face into the day. careful
not to unravel limbs we have touched.