Just One Place

And sometimes there is a memory that slices through the morning. A bridge stretching over a piece of ocean in January. Clumsy steps through a thick blanket of snow. After the first time you made me dinner and our hands were nestled deep into gloves. We could feel the pressure of touch, but without the comfort of skin on skin. Cotton boundaries. I was afraid that I would slip and plunge into the water. I want to be able to say that you never told me the truth. Where were you? This ghost, this half-light, this wave of a hand. I know all of your secrets, dirty and not. Why you get angry, the curve in your chest, how you don’t know how to love anybody. Tell me something, tell me anything. Do you have all that you need?