I can feel you coming, I always can.

You roll in like a mist, blanketing layers of dark green trees in a calm stillness,
revealing the layers of hills that were just invisible moments before you trailed in
I am still [reaching for a time and a place of lost context and old perspectives]

because it takes time to get to know what you want.
A mountain of jagged edges not yet covered by a soft blanket of snow
my warm, empty body is a quick haunt. It’s not easy to pick up where we left off.
When I go back, these are what I have to work with.
Fragment[ed]. Fragment[s]. Fragment[ing].
Breaking? Picking up the pieces I left for myself.

They really are something, bits lost in all the dust as I swept them up
[still, the piece looks similar, sometimes better than before]

The slowness of quiet seems to invoke her, the muting
[time does not exist in these woods,] of jars and jars of fireflies humming in recognition
reaching for something intentionally hidden
but I don’t remember hiding you here.

Is this what it means to be a god? Granting immortality to get the feeling out of me
in that millisecond of a moment while trying to make sense of it all.

God philosopher or garbage man? I am reaching for her here, the scraps. The ones I left behind.