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.