seek shelter

There are chasms of time, and they are vast, where I want to run to you. I sit still and straight and imagine a swift about-turn, weight pressed on the heel as I make the first move back to the time and space we once occupied together. But I guess in many ways and over many moons there have already been moves made. It was February and I was across the Pacific when you told me I was a genius. Often after a scotch I feel brave enough to tell you you I am proud of you. Between the sinewed limbs of contact (a palm curved upward, reaching towards you) week do pass, jobs and siblings and sentiments are lost, and though I forget bit by bit the subtleties of your truth, in a certain semblance we remain intact. We move away but stay in place. Sometimes you're the breath that catches in my throat. Other times you are a tenseness running down my thighs. Once the sirens started and an ancient war began anew you sat with me in my thoughts when I passed panicked hours in the bomb shelters of Jerusalem. Like you, these shelters are open to me; omnipresent- and yet hidden- and my presence in them tells of both safety and a shameful surrender. I spent years hiding beneath you. Breathing you in when I wouldn't draw air alone. Where will I run to when the next siren sounds?