To leave our forms behind, the longing that rises, rises
until the dark ceiling of the sky turns us
back, and the way we came,
un-riddled with stars.
Miles away, you wake to her, and here,
I wake to her, and we
ask to be forgiven—it's not the wind's fault
the trees bend in the storm.
Aren't we something to marvel at,
lying like fallen branches:
Would my fingerprints disappear from your skin if I
let them find your collarbone, hip
bone, curve of your thigh;
the body's remembrances, fossae, and how lovely
it would be to sign my name where no one else can see.
