XLIX.

return.
i can write again.
the moments bleed from my fingertips.

my bones shake with poetry.
and it’s you.
the return.

never would have guessed.
i planned for a lot of things, but not for you.
the one who grips my heart,
tosses my feet into dance,
makes me turn so they can’t see my bloodrushed smile.

one year ago today.
i watched them lock eyes across blanket faces.
his head tilted with a kindling grin.

this one will be long.

because how it happened —
how it happened must last.

a dream.
of glowing cylinders in the night bay.
hillsong, new york.

you said — that night on the shore —
under a dome of blazing stars —
you said that they were oil rigs,
the colors of your childhood,
and i could see them from the window in my dream.

can’t sleep now.

this is when those
who can touch their own feelings against skin
would cry.

my saltwater rushed unbound.
swirled around and under me, outside of me
clear so that swimming sand glinted gold.

i was not in love with you then.
i watched you in the breakers
distant,
calm,
thinking
(you know i am yours.)

the sounds of wandering.
engine hum. pulling my back into the seat, that slap of skin.
wind cutting the sunroof.
music thrumming against glass,
within my ribcage,
pulsing in walls,
spilling out into the sky.

laughing until sore.
arm out the window.
yellow lenses.

hair like a flag.

i wish i could capture this.
the feeling of flying.

like it's all okay now.
in that passenger seat,
soaking the road and the blue.

setting up the tent at dark.
there it was, our canopy.
no rain fly -- just scattered embers above us --

luke slept.
we walked.
bare feet in the softest sand
you traced california constellations
as lonely headlights drifted by and by.

couldn't help but remember the lightning of when you were first there.

and here you are,
and it's like this.

"the eyes reveal the soul," you would say the next night,
and you were right
and it was hardly fair to see you first there
stuck in place while your whole soul showed.

that was the first time --
a matter of a mailbox, ten-year thunder, and a grab for fresh air.

it came flooding back at the return --
a matter of mutual shelter, a starry ceiling, and no warning.

we lay side by side
sharing what warmth we had
i heard the whisper of your restless limbs

"you are safe here."
but people don't wake up sweating for no reason.

it killed me.
you said that he had black hair and wide eyes --
the intruder in your night terrors.

i wanted to pull you, with everything in me, back to us and safety and light --

"you are safe here."
it helped, you said.
and we drifted away.

i dipped into sleep
and you battled the night.
i surfaced again
to find your head on my shoulder.
safe.

i would have stayed there forever.

find me in your darkest times,
and i find you like a strange thunderstorm.