rescue me
A weekend in the fire lookout was my idea.
Keeping the reservation after everyone else bailed was yours.
I arrive first, late afternoon. I climb the forty feet up to the lookout and unlock the door. Through a perimeter of glass, the amber light casts shadows at inconstant angles, nearly erasing the lines between what is interior and what is sky.
I open my book in the Adirondack chair, but I read the same paragraph over and over, distracted by the thought of how your hair riffles into inky strata when you run your hand through it. I walk the room erratically, trying to busy myself with tasks, but I keep hearing you say my name. I look toward the door only to see that I’m still alone.
Breathe in. Hold for 1…2…3. Let it go.
I settle for standing watch on the deck. Birds dart home in the late sun. Beyond the clearing around the tower, dense forests and distant mountains ring the horizon. I let the light saturate my skin, even as the thin air begins to lose its heat in the approaching dusk.
At the far end of the road below, a slight smudge at the edge of the trees comes ever closer, then emerges into the oblique, honeyed light of the setting sun. I watch you cross the meadow, your overnight bag in hand. From here, I can’t see your face, but your stride is unhurried, confident, predictable.
I wonder how you can be so calm, while my heart fills my chest and my hands won’t still themselves no matter what I do.
Breathe in. Hold for 1…2…3. Let it go.
I wonder if you remember FaceTiming me a few weeks ago, how we stayed up until 4 am speaking the insecurities that went unnamed in daylight. You seemed a little outside of yourself. Impulsive. Uninhibited. Saying things you probably shouldn’t have told me. Had I imagined relief on your face when you told me she’d left you?
Breathe in. Hold for 1…2…3. Let it go.
My lips part slightly when I hear you coming up the stairs. I turn when you come in. Your eyes catch and reflect the last bit of sun streaming in around us; you’re beaming the second you see me.
Breathe in. Hold for 1…2…3. Let it go.
We make dinner as the stars come out. You tease me for how I chop the vegetables, but there is something new there, a focused tenderness like vulnerability. A gift. An offer.
I’ve never seen the Milky Way with my own eyes before. You’ve never traced the outline of my fingers before.
Breathe in. Hold.
I awake in the dark, your hand grazing my waist, exposed by an errant hem. I stir a little and settle myself within the curve of you. I guide your hand under my waistband to show you what you’re doing to me. One.
Your breath comes faster now, heavy against my shoulder. Wet and aching and heedless under your fingers, I turn to face you. Again. I am always turning toward you. Two.
“Do you…is this what you want?”
“This is all I’ve ever wanted.”
Three. Let it go.
