but not now when i’m with her and free from these clothes, free from self-judgements and free from time,
out of time, not like there’s no time left but out of time, like time is a stream flowing through young woods or maybe a mangrove,
flowing to touch the salty ocean and i’m out of time stepping out of the stream clenching spring grass or sand in toes,
out of time, out of water, wet and drying, and i have no idea how many years are on my skin, fifty or fifteen, they’d feel the same,
but i can’t kiss away the pull of the water, the siren stream. no, it pulls me back and she and i don clothes and onwards
i go nudging the crawdads, sliding past slick algae stone and sometime i’ll drift down, meeting those still sticks lodged in mud,
meeting the homes of caddisflies long gone, meeting the leaves new and the leaves become halfway dirt,
and i imagine that’s what it’s like, something simple, drifting downwards, until i’m not me anymore but a body becoming earth with the water flowing over,
and i’m trying not to guess the bends ahead and i’m trying not to guess how much longer she and i will climbing out onto the stream bank so green.