Remember this, all this, all the years? The early mornings, the woodsmoke and the red-eyes and creeping around trying not to wake him, even though my skin was roughed with excitement and the day outside was breaking.
I might slip out the window. Careful not to snag.
We could stand outside, then, in the wet grass, while the pigeons cried. Our feet would go numb, remember? We could kiss under the elder tree, even though it was forbidden, even though we were drowned by the noise of the river and nothing we said was right. Your hand over my mouth.