there are things only the pines know:
secrets and dreams
ripe and sweet scented—
i remember once, the way it felt getting lost
with you
and the way the air curled itself against us,
the taste of it on our tongues
when we howled at the moon,
there was no world
except this one, this world we created
lost beneath branches.
and i knew that even if we,
like wolves, were to devour that love,
it would still exist somewhere in our blood steam.

- the dust dances too

(for m.)