I place my head on the pillow and feel you sink in, knowing I’ll see you in wonderland when the world falls shut.
I picture driving home to you, the sun dipping below the west coast horizon.
I picture the winter rink, the falling on white sheets from wobbly knees.
I picture Central Park in all its autumnal glory, cheeks as rosy as the fallen leaves.
There is a gentleness in your voice, a certainty in your words, and hearing them is like coming home to a November fire.
I picture eggs and bacon, dilapidated pages of our mothers’ recipes.
I picture marble statues, larger than life and beauty through suffering.
I picture stormy nights, comfort films and moon rivers.
and my chest rises and falls to each vibration of your strum,
nine thousand miles away.