Even now, walking this city’s cobbled streets, I am rowing to the pebbled shore. Twenty-five years later and I am plunging the oar into
You brim with my long-ago eyes and your lips on my name give it back to me. My ghost beats with blood and thrums
The moon forgets that we see her wax and wane. Heaving our tides into place, she’s busy and it’s hard to remember anything