Smoke.

I smell my coffee in your mouth. You use my body lotion. Almond

Driving alone, my heart races. I call you. It’s a warning, it’s a surprise. Overwhelming, I say

Cicadas.

Families bring baskets of food and then more. We eat with our fingers and our laughing cleans our lips

Night.

Five days before his death, you prayed with my father, snapped a photo when he put on his blue hat

Fog.

We keep finding stories we haven’t told each other; repeat the ones we know

Thunder.

I count the booms, the seconds before the lightning and the time it takes for you to drive from work to home

Tide.

I can’t get my bearings when hours sink me the couch. I stretch toward you leaning back in the soft armchair

Growth.

I shave the back of your neck to clean. You fold clothes and place them on the bed

Topography.

Your identifiable marks are contemplation and patience. I’d know you anywhere

Dawn.

You can name the places I have traveled without you and with you, we lust wander

Dusk.

You don’t ask, when will you be finished? You remove the cold cup of tea, dump the wilted bag

Humidity.

Your fine hairs float into pinwheels in the sink and in bed you regulate me to warm

Night.

You have prayers, I have storytellers. You live grateful, I sleep peacefully

River.

We have rituals we haven’t done before. Old in love, muddied in the heart, on to the sea.