I wear your presence like a shawl,
clinging it close to me
as a second skin -
wielding it like porcupine quills.
My impatience wears at me, I fidget
and flutter - a bird in a too-small cage.
I remember daisies and tiger lilies
growing along the path in the woods where
we would go to smoke joints,
our steps hurried to get there
but reluctant to leave.
I remember the frore of the autumnal air
burrowing into my fingertips
the last time we ventured that far.
The trees were grey and cold,
their outlines like cracks in
Smoke billowed from your nostrils.
Your eyes decoded the ashen clouds,
a gruesome imitation of intestines,
gurgling and grumbling as the thunder
crept up on us from the North.
Through the haze I watched
your pupils dilate in, out, in.
The fallen leaves crunched beneath your boots;
if I’d wanted I could have closed my eyes
and followed you home
but I’ve never been that brave.