by Laura Lentz

You could come
fresh from a concrete city
and I would still taste the
salt water on your skin.
Or with a one-way ticket
and I would know the return.
Place your mouth
all over who I used to be.
I’ll blanket your body
standing on that Texas road.
I want your hands when they plane,
not the hands that discard
the crown of the tree
without regret.

Photo by TZOLTEC on TZOLTEC.art