Swimming around your perimeter, against a rocky shoreline.
Cutting onions in your kitchen in a stained white apron. The anticipation of breath on my neck.
Reading Neruda, I step over logs.
Dreams in a glorified cot, cardboard pillow, bats hover above.
Water slips over the edge of the rowboat, soaking my yellow dress.
Plucking voracious ticks from our hair and backs. It's the most we've touched, it's infuriating.
I look for you everywhere. In the lake, in the trees, in the bathrooms with your toilet brush.
Injecting an esoteric performance at a wholesome talent show made for families.
I say come here. And everything changes.