Feeling you wash over me,
phantom pinpricks across both arms
immediately rippling their way
into goosebumps, I can’t help but wonder
if you are the one who will cross with me 
that stone bridge I see in my dreams,
removing me from all the snapshots
I’ve committed to memory—

the smell of my mother’s hair,
lavender vanilla, a bit of Chanel;
my dad’s low chuckle, waking up
for brunch on Saturdays,
how the backyard breathes after rain—

bringing me to the other side
of what I have yet to discover,
tiptoeing through the starry dark,
skipping from cobblestone steps
to another realm of being,
headspace that doesn’t know me yet,

so allowing me to delve headfirst
to the truest scenes at my core
that lie buried in a darkroom bath,
photograph by photograph
yet to be developed—

a task I’d never have begun
without you by my side,
without your hand ever-closely
intwined in mine.