Listen. It’s morning. Soon I’ll see your hand reach for my watch, the water will agitate in the kettle, but listen. Traffic. I want your dreams first. And to slide my leg beneath yours before the day opens. Wait. We slept late. You’ll be moody, the phone will ring, someone wanting something. Let me put my hands in your hair. Who I was last night I would be again. This is how the future holds me, how depression wakes with us; my body shelters it. Let me put my head on your breast. I know nothing lasts. I would try to hold you back, not out of meanness but fear. Oh my practical, my worldly-wise. You know how the body falters, falls in on itself. Tell me that we will never want from each other what we cannot have. Lie. It’s morning.

pre-crash to wilderness to post-crash