Can be eyes, staring. Blindfolds, covering. A search party of ten, fumbling in the dark for the lost but sensed. With you, as close as language. In the mornings, instead of writing my dreams down, I would turn to your breath and tell you–about the trees, the fear. My palm cupping the back of your head was the parentheses. And the line I think we'll both remember was where fingers glided slow, down hip to tailbone. In the Presidio, when I reached behind me for your wrists in w

Here I am, waiting for my father's text again words like hands who don't know they hold me. Here I am, stomach grumbling because someone...