I wake up with you inside of me, with

fog holding back the sun. Your words

still on my lips, gathering tenor, wondering

in. Could it be anything,

but this – my door propped open on chance

you return while I am gone, our story

intentionally unfinished – never to end, though

silences sometimes fill the page. The land knows

where we leave

ourselves in oak branches, lilies afloat

on water, soil drying

out as grass turns from sun green to

earthen, reflection changed. No matter, days

flood, we find each other yet when I am running

the wind through my hair, your voice across

the meadow carries my shirt left behind – glad

in my freedom, glad when you catch me

with a smile, a boot pressed into my back,

marking I am yours though you do not

keep me. Tender as we are ends up

broken, waking takes long, but your hands last.