Opening the door shows the road
(inconspicuous, ahead of us,
bathed in the light rushing toward the earth
or sky, bathed in the potential
of the sun rising)
and asks for news of contentment,
unconcerned with taking
the first step to frame
the cold air of the house and rush
of humidity
(touching the same doorknob
but not reliving the pain of each others
past). I only want to move toward you,
turn and hold out my arms,
draw you close
and close my eyes to the asphalt
just over your shoulder.