We are together
again
in those Pennsylvania woods:
Our Paradise.

It is fall--
birds are singing.
You say they sing for me.
Fogged light shines through
the falling orange leaves;
your face glows (you’re older now than when I knew you).
I am glad
that in Our Paradise,
the moment we share does not fade.
We lock eyes,
free
from the shackles of time.

It is summer--
after a week of rain,
the creek has grown wide.
We cross it,
stepping over slippery stones
like always,
to reach the bed of wildflowers
on the other side.
We make bouquets for one another,
lying on moss
the same color as your eyes.
I am unafraid
of telling you everything.
In Our Paradise,
the creek’s cold water
washes away all past reticence.

It is winter--
Our boots, crunching over snow,
are side by side.
Everything around is frigid
the trees are bare,
but you are so warm; you’re vivid and alive!
When tears of despair fall
I feel you wipe them away,
consoling me, saying:
“Dear heart,
beloved, my love:
you do have a home.
Your home is in my arms.”
We make snowballs; they
never seem to hurt.
We kiss.
In Our Paradise,
love is our god.
Nothing,
not the winter,
nor jealousy, nor ignorance,
can make us weary;
now we stand on solid ground.

But I know that it’s actually spring--
and I don’t go to the woods,
it would be too lonely.
Spring was the time of year
you left.
I wonder if
you can hear me,
calling out while I stare at the
blank ceiling
above me,
tears running
all the way down.
I can’t hear you
anymore.
I wonder if you can feel me
when I grip my bedsheets into a fist.
I can’t feel you
anymore.

Our Paradise is
my sole escape
when all our moments
have been buried
in some foggy cemetery east of here
I don’t have the guts
to visit. To this day,
only I
have walked over those fallen leaves
felt that creekwater
picked those wildflowers
in that Pennsylvania forest, alone.
Fantasies keep me sane.
That is what it is to live;
that is what it is to lose.