You perch opposite, breathing precarious.
The window reflects you as a ghost
Through which the scenery rips.
The tree branches tickle your tightly pressed lips,
Meadows streaking along your cheeks;
Grief left, like her grave, to burgeon green.
I learn this landscape as your history.
While you sit, clouds coming out of your eyes,
Your clasped hands trembling like a train on tracks.
I understand time as a motion:
The sunset claws kisses into your wrinkles.