From Buchanan to Michaux we’ve roamed the state forests, searching for my new home.
Here: five acres of hemlock – without any water.
There: a dozen in oak – too remote for utilities.
I look at my feet and resign myself to living in town – but you draw me close, lift my chin, kiss me.
“Whatever you choose I’m here for you.”
The rain is cold but your body is warm. We watch the peach glow rising over the street lights, and I cling to you.
An emotion I’ve feared finds form and shrieks in the back of my brain. It sneaks to my mouth and sticks in my throat – and it Must Not Be Spoken.
You stroke my hair, my cheek.
Realization sparks in your eyes.
“You love me…”
I hide my face on your chest and pray for the rain to dissolve me. A sob wracks my whole body.
“I love you too. Everything’s going to work out.”
What are we writing?
The ink is thick and lies in great puddles.
Pen and Inkstone