it meant little to her, she told me as much
but I loved her more each time.
on the rug, her bed
and before in the summer
I drove almost two hours at four in the morning
to watch the sun rise over a bench
that empty highway
splashed in glass.
with yellow reeds all tidy in rows.
blackberries by her door.
it would be something like a pilgrimage,
if Mecca involved having sex in your car.
or terribly planned picnics
(who knew spiders loved sandwiches!)
laughing shirtless in the grass.
I find her red hair in my shower
the echoes of her sleep have sewn themselves
into the depths of my mattress.
if I don't move the blankets much
I can see the outline of her body
limp and loving and heavy with light.