When we were not much younger,
we'd lay on our backs in the grass
and look up to the sky, you and I making
shapes in the clouds and seeing how
elephants became rabbits as easily 
as actions become habits.

You were new, corduroy pressed against
spaces not meant for us, not dressed in innocence
and common sense was far away from us then.
I looked at you like a thing without a place,
or a  feeling that didn't quite fit.

For every moment of passion there is
a passive understanding amidst the insidious
sense of urgency that comes when you
realize you're in places you're not supposed
to be and you are bound to be discovered.

I still don't
like waking up
in the middle
of the night
only to find
that you are
still not here;
it doesn't feel
safe to stay
in spaces that
cannot contain you.

Keep yourself
in good condition,
so that when people
come to borrow you,
they find that you are
ready to be taken.

I wear you out like words,
and can't help but notice that
your name feels the same,
resting on the tip of my tongue
as your palm feels against the
back of my neck, moving upwards
until the shapes of the letters run into
and over each other, and I remember
that once you have gone back
 to a place enough times,
it no longer feels like home.