I am lonely most of the time and imagine more than I act. I see tense shoulders. The hollow of your wrists. An ease of step unlike my stomp. You are the grace of honey pouring into the jar. The prickly pear I peel in silent prayer.

A plum is floating for me when I see you. Dry, plump skin. Fang marks. Juicy fingers. Do not tell me it’s alright when I am distant. Do not forgive. Bob in the water and turn.

When I am not imagining, I am being. You help me to return to underused senses. Oil shimmers on your lips. Your dish is fantastic.

The present with you is real. I do not imagine well. I am mud. I am everywhere. My hands are avalanches when you finally scream.