Like sutures in a skull, we have stitched ourselves together,
two lives in apposition at the measured pace of bone

smooth here, jagged there, a mountain range of moments
tracked in zippered contour lines

which have led us, undeniably, to the scree slope of your end
where I practice walks without you

through the rain wet grass, sodden, but stilling,
so when you pass between the blades soaked in light, like the morning

I will wake to find you everywhere, a geography pierced and seamless,
a landscape shot through with light.

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