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It's always been strong,
whatever it is between us.
Thick, like the smell of damp earth
and coiled lilies at the start of spring.
The passage of time embeds striations
in mountain tops that appear, mid-flight,
like the earth's crinkled nose
as it laughs at you out there and me above it,
pretending as though the atmosphere were a treadmill
and you the prize.
With smudged lipstick and raw, wringing hands,
anticipation dissolves into reunion.
Anatomy and existence collapse
until we're nothing more than smeared dinner plates
stacked and shuttering beside crumpled bedsheets
and a tangled pile of jewelry on the nightstand:
You're silver, I'm gold.
Together we're incense, a wood handled teapot,
and a hundred-and-six year old house
with a medicine cabinet kept
just where you place your palm
on the small of my back.
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