How far do you have to travel before you become unreal?
This far from home we make love without touching.
One by one you remove your shoes, your socks, the language you used to speak, and standing there in trembling light I pretend not to notice I am already naked, this is not my life, there is no avenue of interlocking lime trees to take me back, no raindrops tumbling through pulsating green.
We falter, unkeyed, at the skin’s boundary. When I run my fingers into you it is quick, a sleight-of-hand.
Our dreams have the strong, twisted feet of swans and they paddle hard beneath the surface of mirrors.
I am not, I believe, able to think for myself. The ground thinks me. The light thinks me; I am a conversation not a fortress. There were trees where water dripped through green; I was very young. There is a place north of here where sun after rain turns grey stone gold. There are a lot of mirrors in our home and I tend to agree with you on most things. Not because I think you’re right but because I want to know where agreeing will take me.