Love, you catch me by my shoestring,
remind of me all my undone laces,
trip me up in the 5 am dark.
There’s so much in the telling, the re-
telling, of how I undid you,
like letting my hair down in the secret
of a five foot closet, making love
like we were trying to wake the sun,
who let us make our own light in cherry red silence,
heat filling embered skin.
Fiction in the gold cracks between your fingernails,
I searched the library for your biography,
the space you should have been dusty, I
ran to the bookstore–
sold out, like our memories. The moon rose
honey-warm, braiding us
back together, we rise like bread.
The Wanderer 