I watch you, not him. Wordless in rhythm, looking for an ever after you once promised to the ring that now sits on your bedside table.
The night closes in until there is nothing but the birdsong caught in your throat and the gloss of his sweat inking itself to your skin, in anticipation of something come undone.
You come together and the horizon fractures into the day’s early redness.
The things I love I bury deep in the forest, mortal acts returning as something pure. Leaves dappling sunlight, tree sap.
Later, I tidy the ragged sheets on our unmade bed.