I gave you mine.
You gave me yours.
Up in the black hills
is where I left it.
Those with peaks clean chopped
and roots ripped on out.
Where February’s fingers
cold clung to the warmth
of both you and I.
It’s where the moon weeps,
where the wind died down
to hear what we said.
Remember the spot,
a dead, quietly marked place.
It’s in a black box
that’s just the right size.
It’s in our lost place,
where our echoes dance.
It’s where we promised,
among the blind walks,
that I was yours, you were mine.
Beneath the soil deep
waits that piece of you.
Just in case you
wanted it back.