Cedar & sweat.

They say not to dwell too much on the future, but I can’t help it. I know it makes sitting in the present nearly unbearable, but I can’t help that either.

As I reflect on conversations to come, you carefully review the ones past. But then it’s always been that way. You’ve watched me from the distance, shaking your head at my willingness to leap into the moon to be reborn each day. I make my assurances that you won’t perish. You have proof that indicates otherwise. Still you watch. And wait for a divine indication of safe passage into a midnight sky. I forget to look back and see if you are there, but I do not worry about that anymore. I never need to. I know what I know.

You are so close I can smell you. Cedar and sweat agreeing to coexist on the skin stained burnt sienna by an unforgiving sun. I can see your orange shadow, auguring the space you will consume as you sleep beside me. It casts a teasing promise along the living room wall as I sip the morning coffee you so easily decline.  I hear you whispering your secrets with a boyish grin. You think you might be ready, but that secret you keep to yourself.

You linger just on the very edge of moonlight now, extending your fingers into its milky glow. I know better than to push you. I know better than to demonstrate how easy it’s done. I know the damage of intercession. And so I distract myself with the smell of your cedar and sweat, your orange shadow and the warmth of your breath in my ear.

Your secrets I will always keep.