I’m going to imagine a poem
so that nobody else can hear
about leaves that fall into the shape of your hands
that stroke the nails you’ve bitten down
and taste your moist skin with its veins.
I won’t take a picture
because I want this moment for myself
to lock inside the back of my eye
where the light sojourns
on treetops that surround the forest
except for the sole beam
that illuminates on the tongue of your moccasin.
My sandal sinks into the bike trail
with branches embedded in its skin
but when I take my foot back from the mud
your shoe print is grounded behind instead.
I can hear you drag your left foot,
the dirt chews on the canvas
and when you peek through the branches
that still have streams of green
running down their spines
I fall into the open field
where the light nourishes me
through my hair.
I can see the wind in your lashes,
dirty blonde with a curl that I envy,
sway to my right,
your left.
As you skim through the neck
of the wheat grass
your hand skips through the browns
that scratch the fingertip of my pinky,
and I watch you fall next to me
so we can hide underneath yesterday’s leaves
that make my body feel like cotton.