because I had memorized a poem you had read as a child, because it was pinned above my bed, because until today neither of us understand it, because you wrote your life into a poem that I read before I met you, and because I did not tell you this, because it was pinned above my bed –

because the night was moving away, faster and faster, and the tide was retreating under our feet, because as you kissed my shoulder we were piecing together what little we knew about motion, because some divine hand was urging the world on even as we stood still, the thin firmament was sliding toward dawn, because the margaritas became a whirlpool within us, because you let me lick the salt from your mouth –

because once I dreamt of you walking toward me, making your tall way through the tall grass, because the dream took forever and you never drew closer, because I was left at the edge of the field, tucking into my pocket the strings that tied me to you,

because I could not pull you toward me, because my desire was as palpable as paper, and just as combustible, because you were an island and I was a folded boat, attempting your shores, again and again, the wretched rim of salt.

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