I’ve followed you home so many more
than a hundred times. Ten hours late.
Perhaps ten years early. Back home.
In one patch of sky I see the way
Your hands touch the backs of my knees
And the top of my neck where
It aches
I can taste the times we drink
together from the painted mugs,
In glimpses
And watch your lips reach my forehead
from behind someone’s window
Why must I feel the need,
to keep from you
Everything I ornament, the
Sounds that I hear the moment you
leave?
