There is a space in between the folds in my fingers and yours.  Those mind puzzles at the lake house can only fit a certain way, as so it seems to be with the way yours fold over and around my palm, as if you cover empty canyons of my questions with a solid form of your own..

the unknown predators around them.

There is a newness to this thing we are creating. I’m not certain that that will ever go away. This is enough. This is more that enough that any human soul could ask of her life, of her days, of her breath and of her collection of warmth that surrounds.

We cook dinners and we talk of history and of the days that came before and of temptations and of the ease and of being whole.

I sleep heavy next to your body, in every bed. I sleep in colours of swirling dreams and I wake with the energy that is grown in all of the hours of missing your voice while you’ve been asleep

Maybe it is the hazy humidity of Texas

Or the laziness and ease in understanding that I understand nothing