i wasn't taught to trust God-
your face between my palms
held careful like a prayer
planted in the black night.
winter is gentle
graciously recreating the landscape,
a soothing balm across our wounds;
the snow striking in my eyes
a green you hadn't remembered since childhood,
when the cicada's desperate thrumming
was the only thing more comforting
than the racing of your own heart.
my ghosts are haunted, weary
grown long in the evening's shadows
lulled by their slowly drifting tide.
you pull me close, lips to my throat
eyes wild again, bargaining
and i am always about to leave.