The horses on the other side of the river whinny.
Maybe they know the danger I am in if I turn

back to you. I should live alone in the warmth
of moss, in a forest without the false promises you

make without speaking, pacts made with your body
touching mine. I am a fugitive who hides from

you underwater, finding only a reed to push
up to the surface, trying to breathe unnoticeably

until you have finally gone.