My darling, my voice, I would sit here with you
until my body exhausts its reserves of sense and numbness.
But I already know you will leave or I will
or this bench itself will erode and never be redintegrated.
You hold a book or map, you hold my life.
It's all handfuls of butterflies you're iterating into the wind.
Promise me you'll wait at the next bench. Promise me.
I'll find you, and lose you, and find you again.