The tide rushes over her body,
and I feel it.
She starts to sink and suction
into wet sand, and
I feel it.
Anchored in,
barely breathing, but
I feel it
all.

Finally.

I recall my hands upon the earth:
Delicate, squeaky blades of grass,
soft, dry dirt beneath.
I dug in,
dark crests of that which supports life
beneath my fingernails,
earth contained
within clenched fists.

Not sleeping through the night.
I keep waking,
my stakes in this **** thing are high.
He sleeps through it all: the turning,
gasping, box spring
squeaking.

He strolled through the front door
smelling like the cold,
like it hadn’t snowed yet,
but the fall was foretold.

Am I taking advantage of you,
of your always being there, here,
walking with me?
When my foot leaves the earth, yours takes its place.

Sometimes I start a poem and stop,
unable to finish.
"I haven't felt the emotions for this one yet,
to give it what it needs, to water it, make it grow,"
I think. "Some future version of me...
she will know,
she has those words stored up,
they'll flow,
but not for me, not quite,
not yet, no."

You're like one of these poems.
Do you know
how many times I've started, just to
stop and think, "Whoa,
not quite, not yet, no.
I haven't quite mastered this craft."
Save draft.

I want to feel
like the rays of sun,
the lucky ones,
that filter through the clouds and trees,
touch the ground, the fallen autumn leaves.
I want to warm the earth,
warm a hearth, warm a heart,
warm your cheeks when I speak
small words like your name and
big ones like "procrastinate" and
big feeling ones like "love"
also words I can't pronounce like "Worcestershire"
then words I don't know how to use like "assuage"
and okay maybe "love" again.

And okay I want to maybe love again
and when I hear your small name,
I think I do love again
because you feel like those sunbeams,
the ones that warm a chilly breeze
the ones I want to cross the street to walk in.

Some pesky emotions
stick to my insides...
They cling just under
my skin,
vacationing
in rosy-cheeked 98.6° temps.
I try to shake them off,
they slide around,
bloom up to my chest, crest
over my shoulders, smolder
the insides of my elbows, rove
across my ribs, rummage
into my stomach, and
smack
stuck again
snug again.

Not sure if they ever dissolve.
I imagine I have developed
layers of them by now.
But I guess we all have.