You talk to me from across the room, you,
with this face that I want to photograph:
the moment you fall back into yourself, retreat,
your lips still smiling
shy and sweet and all too **** fooling.
Ah, you’re glad it’s over. I know because we’ve been here before in August, lost in this wild-west desert,
Buckle up, cowboy, we’re going to Paris. Texas.

December. It’s getting cold outside.
You need to leave, walk home in the snow,
back to the love that has turned memories into life, the place
you were hurt into being.
My dearest friend and lover.
I see you,
in tenderness and humanity.
I see you.
You will know
how to live with a heart this vulnerable.
You will see where the river flows,
where it is very still and very gentle.
It will be beautiful.