There is a puddle
that reminds me of you.
I’ve become such a regular
that its mud has
memorized the contours of my shoes,
right wider than the left,
toes turned out.

I imagine my puddle
listen to me
calling it mine
waits for my eyes
to peek over the weeds
a sweet surprise
for a lonely morning.
I step inside and I smile
and my puddle smiles back.

I keep it company
until the sun sets
and it clings to me,
asking me to stay
a little longer
and I do
until water soaks through my shoes
and my soles begin to blister
and I have to say goodbye

When I sleep dry and clean
wrapped in fleece,
I shiver for your hands
around my sodden ankles
impatient to wake
and sink again.
Drown if I could.

But some mornings
are lonelier than others.
Some mornings,
I stand in the weeds,
because my puddle
waits for eyes
that aren’t mine.
I wonder if tomorrow
I’ll stand in footprints
two sizes bigger,
favoring their heels.