I stumble upon remembering,
the last time —
the first time. dappled terrace, grilled and over-loved.
the middle times. airport traditions.
Cars stuffed with limbs, shoulders, your music and my longing.
Too much noise, not enough tears.
(I always come to leave you behind, didya’ notice?)
there’s a before and an after now — time is broken now
it spills into my skin — these moments, of breath
like a bird trapped, that I swallowed by mistake.