wade.

a night spent trying to understand how she can fit 27 possibilities into a smile as wide as a postcard. that i forgot to write. and she forgot to send. so we can save it until next December. when it will happen again. days before she travels to a bridge to hear the echo of her boots. on wood. on water. on rock. that grows next to pansies that are the color of a hobo’s knuckles. violent and blue. bone splashes of pressurized white. she will sing to them with her fingers. and give me delicate memories to write about. there but not then we will vow to never break the sky and to never again argue with gravity. and i’ll confess my ideas are not always as large as my ideologies. we’ll agree that touch is always best in the morning as we circle the freckles on each other’s arms in the midday. then she’ll leave. grass in her hair though she never once lied down. dreams rolling down her neck. and sewing themselves into the ground. sensation dripping from her hair though she never stepped into the water.