The rug curls underneath
my suitcase wheels,
leaving the door an inch ajar,
one inch too far.

You shudder at the draft slipping in,
the stain on my shoelace,
& your lace hem peeking out.
Dungeon eyes, let me in.

Unsure of what to say
until those splotched hands,
like naked branches in December,
edged towards mine.

Until the crest of your fingernail
and the arc of the awning,
our makeshift altar
where we stood

heartbeats apart. My bare
feet upon your Oxfords:
toes on brick
               ears on fire.

And just maybe you hear it too:
the gravel crunching,
the church bell’s sway,
the crescendo.

Or maybe you fade
like the yellowing enamel
behind a waning smile.
An after-whiff of cigar
               from my ash grey coat.

But in this
unloaded bunker lies
a match in the rain,
and we slip into remedy.