In the morning, rays and grays peek through dark curtains and I can hear the rain dance on double pane I can hear some breath measured and wanting I can hear a foreign tongue and blue-eyed laugh and fingers tracing cartography on fading maps of Western Europe.
I like to hold the secrets of your past close against my chest like bouquets of dried flowers, crumbling in time and dotted with sweat from fever dreams, I watch you sick and typing and moving away from where I stand fast and with increasing frequency.
It's only in magic that we ride bikes, wet leaves caught under fenders along a river side by side in shadows of a lifting bridge.