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You are sand that slips between my fingers.
You are the tide, escaping me with the moon.
I hold onto you everywhere and always,
though you evade my grasp.

There are things that I could tell you--
That despite the yellow orange
light that did not flatter
and the concrete walls
and the slate-gray sky
and the smoke that lingered between your lips
you, always, are lovely.
And everywhere I watch you
move like the hot summer wind
brushing against my cheek
which prickles at your touch.

And I stretch towards you like evening shadows.

Such things that I could tell you--
I could unfold the map of myself,
show you all my landmarks.
But you are never lost.
And I am always a step behind.

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