молоко и мед

There is a wrinkle

in the water

where you fell in

what seemed like

years ago.

I don’t know

why the

water folds

in that

particular

way, but

I can see the

point of impact,

where your skin

shuddered at the

newness of it,

where your bones

tried to reconfigure

themselves into

a suitable

structure.

You are always,

at some level,

in my fingers,

a synapse

in the

pit of my

mind;

a layer between

my eyes

and my brain,

where you urge

me to

dive beside the

laceration you

left.

But I can recall the days

when I went home

and screamed,

my sobs turned

to retching as my

lungs grew frantic,

mimicking the heart

that pressed beside them.

I wish gravity

was not so heavy

on my shoulders,

because some days

I find it hard

to lift them

from the sheets,

to curl away from

sleep and

from warmth

and the placating

nature of a

bed undone.

I know how

the road seems,

how the bends

become slight

journeys in

themselves;

the

cliffs plummet

without regard,

leaving the

sheer face of

rock

as a wall

for those on

the road below

us, but to us

it only

bids the

openness of

air and

the sounds of

our breathing,

synchronized

and wholly

unintentionally

out of tune with

the rivers that

made valleys

just below

the horizon.

If I could show

you the dip

in the water,

I would

not hesitate.