My travels always start with a cup of you,
soaked in the sighs of the morning rain, treading water in the lake of our sheets.

Sometimes they end with you behind the door,
the words crawling out of your mouth—
a thunderstorm of
unwritten paragraphs about how often my head and knees meet.

Sometimes they end with a bottle and a stick of defeated silence—
you and your fallacious fingers,
you and your absolute mouth,
you, you, you.

Most times they end with the moon wrapped in our helpless embrace,
its light a different flavor.

And even then, I do not choose to let go.