You came to me this week hidden in the secrets of others. They have no idea that in them, I only ever see you. I see you in their desires, their curiosities, their apologies.

I only ever see you, still. 

I gave in, I laid back, I closed my eyes. I swallowed the burning, selfish desire to reach out and interrupt your journey. The ache is a kind of faith. I have to believe you were there with me, and that you just don't know how to get back. 

It's been almost two years since we went to the canyon. The swing. The spilled wine. The drum. I'm here now, you said. 

Were you? 

I hear you in songs you'd probably hate, in things you'd never say even if you felt them like blood in your bones. 

It's a kind of faith.