There are stories no one but yourself will ever know,
of sunflowers growing from the gutters, miles of cornfields,
cities seen from the edge of forests twisting roads and glittering streets, unfinished stories of lost lovers’ empty promises and hopeful questions,
from a book you don’t want to finish
but are always sure the last pages are closed
because it could only go downhill from now.
And it’s somehow all a contest but it’s not how fast you got there;
instead the time you took to really think about those sentences.
You wake up
dry and out of breath
everything neatly tucked under the bed.
I know myself to know that I can add ink and liquid
to create a sea of poetry and graves,
and your addition and your lusting reciprocate back to me.
You still want me for my unfazed brashness and stop me
mid-sentence to stress your waiting, mystery,
glimpses into our similar mind maze that open with our rusting key.
The days here are finally getting longer.
It took seven years and nearly three countries before we slowed down.
Now I ask myself, do I go up or down the stairs?