This is the land of the lost,
with the rain soaked ground sinking beneath my feet.
This is the land of cracked leather swings,
dogs on ropes,
Daisy Catherine
in her rainboots.

This is a place of the past.
The hill slopes inward,
broken shards of plastic littering its sides
and piercing its surface like teeth.
This is the land of the lost,
and of memories floating in on mist,
shimmering and warm, reminding me of a time before here.

This is a land with no rules.
Daisy Catherine
can swing all the way to the sky
and never have to come back down.

Traditions are cast aside
expectations are lowered
and we get lost.

this is the land of the lost,
of silent canyons
molded by weeks gone by.
no longer caked in ice,
no longer frozen in time.

This is the place I always come back to.
This is the land of the lost.

We have sand behind us,
memories of sand and of the sun but also the cold, and there is a lot of grass and warmth and so many breezes, through trees, over rivers, and in through sun roofs and car windows,
and sometimes I think that all I am made up of is us,
my skin is not my skin but blades of grass under our backs and between our toes, I am only mud and cracking twigs and the way the river smells driving across the levee after it rains,
and sometimes when I look at myself my eyes are not my eyes
at all,
they are the sun reflecting off the ocean, or the blue sky over the trees,
over everywhere we have been together or will ever be apart.
And my freckles are flecks of sand on our skin, and if I let them become it, the streets that I walk down become shady alleys covered in ivy or uneven sidewalks along the beach.
So often
I can suddenly feel gravel underneath my feet, or I am stepping lightly over asphalt too hot under my toes.
When I let myself go
all I can feel is what has been with you, the
dew on the lawn in the morning and the rain on your winshield, the sun on our faces in the summer,
my skin, your skin, our eyes
blend together into an overwhelming expanse of sky,
your fingertips are on my eyelashes and the muscles in our shoulders are the same,
and all we are, all I will ever be,
is everything I have been with you.

We fall through each other
and when we fall we catch each other
but more often I find I am catching myself.
I catch moments and memories
of falling,
and of waking up to the phone ringing and of
your voice catching me through the wires on the other line.
And I always hope
that you are happy and you are safe,
and that I will see you soon,
because that is what you want.
and I always hope you will not ask me what I want.
We fall through each other,
and when we fall we catch each other,
and sometimes I feel like I am falling alone.
But when I wake up,
when I open my eyes,
I have not moved, and you are still there,
waiting to catch me if I fall.