his fingers dig into the dirt
like a priest bends for prayer.
his feet are rooted to the ground
and his lips taste like the earth.
in the trees he hides himself,
clothed in a vestment of mist
clutched between ***** fingernails.
in the sand is laid out all the words
he's ever truly known: the word
of the sand is what he lives by.

hold me to your ear and you will hear my heart beat echo,
breaking in waves. pull your fingers apart and the ocean
will spill through the cracks, salt water stinging your
cuts and filling your lungs until you're so far under your
toes can't touch the bottom. search for the light on the
surface, but you won't reach it. stars can't shine that deep.

on land you carry my heart cupped in your hands, but you're
afraid to touch it. you can see your reflection in the water
and there is fear in your eyes and running through your veins.

home is dirt, not sand, spring air without salt. home is sunlight
filtered through oak leaves, not raw against your skin. home is
mist in the morning, light on your cheeks, water in the air.
my heart travels while home stays put.

my heart belongs somewhere else but for now it is in your palm;
for that I am not sorry. i'm a long time traveler but even
travelers need to rest at night, and dear, it's night outside.
or can't you see the stars shining?

it would be lovely to let go,
unfold this scrap of paper
in my backpocket and watch
the red penciled heart
grow wings and take flight
up over these empty acres
blanketed in snow,
through this city with it's
blur of white and yellow lights
burning without break.

in my hand is the lovenote
you left me with, without knowing,
the words you wrote about stars
and the sky and growing old,
the note about life and a love
not as transient as the one
you carry in your heart for me.
in my hand are these words and as
I unfold them I can feel your heart
lifting
up away
from our city and me.