Last night I watched her beam and swell—a rain spot on my bedroom window—visible but only a smudge refracting—like how flesh glows through skin on skin on muscle on bone of the pad of my finger over the screen, like sideways in the golden buffer of a cloud. See how light gets pulled from both ends but does not stop moving, like past the youthful fullness of a tree, and how she would look blue up close,

her color reaching past the rich space.

This distance is generous and flattering.

It has dissolved your bruises and brought you home. Standing still, the space still expands. Do you remember climbing together, and how the sunset painted everything yellow, and that we kept falling down and away from each other? Through my eyelids the world becomes flesh, skin, my forehead bone aches. I have been scowling, pressing my gaze through the window, hoping to see you walk by.