The light of it made up the bulk of it, if I recall, and, somehow, it was still day. Room vacated, barren, a reminder of what had not yet blossomed.
And if I remember it right, cloud shadow cloaked you in the shirt you said you hemmed from the sky, and for some reason I believed you. We counted up our scars beside our freckles and left light for somewhere inside our heads.
But at once, we knew we could never go home.
And if I truly remember, you resisted and embraced the weight of it, despite it, the light not our friend but an informant. It said, “the trees are watching,” but before we could look they stood still as stone.
Somehow it was still day, and somehow you wrapped us in its warm sheets. We matched bone for tired bone until the light said the scene was over.
But hell, our walls clutched the spark of it, housed my silent choler in the heart of it. You let your hair down and honey crept up my throat.
In all that clutching, you and everything you claimed became light through the open window—you had no body, no memory, no way to whisper.
I stayed for years in that loft, Love, clearly waning, but your shape promised it was still day. With all that day , I suckled on the last of it: the sweet in my throat, your shirt made of sky, our scar tissue, what at once almost blossomed.
But when night came, I could only believe you. How could I not? And, if I remember right, even though the moon scorched the earth, you never did return in the morning.