barely a day or a year or a
timeline where i'd chart how far i'd fallen through,
the occasional witty remark. shut, up.
the hours don't matter in the face of a current you can't face
alone. anyway,
you can take my hand.

reliving the poems i’d write with these lips-
different from my mistakes
or your silk-spun kindness and
not a step placed wrong.
you told me it was early in the morning but you’d never looked more
beautiful.
a vignette of something incomplete, a forest
catching me out of breath and impossibly
in love with you.