i.

a flower blooms from your beside table in the five a.m. light. it's a dusty and cold thing, a glimpse into the love that pours from the cracks in wood, but it rises towards your lamp and dares to smile. it holds the light; the light does not let go.

        ii.

the drizzle glistens upon your hands as we speak. they're slick as you move them, smoother than ever before, but your words fumble; your tongue trips on your teeth and everything comes out mangled—half-born and numb. but i write.

    i've been pouring broken things onto pages for years.

        iii.

the moon does not bode well for nature. as the gargantuan trees whisper and rustle, rising to point at this grey glowing thing, we weave through a forest alive with wood and leaves. it has a language of its own, this place; when we lie with our backs cracking twigs and your lips to the sky, you can almost hear it.

     "there are some things we cannot know." you say, from behind your baby teeth. "this is one of them."

         i scratch your words into the back of my mind. they'll keep me warm once you leave.