I carry a torn map into the ferry after the storm. I leave knowing what right person wrong time costs me.

I hear your laugh cross the ferry after the storm before I see you.

I carry cold wool against my arm between us when our eyes meet.

I see a torn map resting in your palm.

I understand that I need timing to stop deciding for us.

I remain beside you as the captain announces there will be no return crossing.

I ask the smallest question with the largest history.

I see your fingers tighten around a torn map.

I remember your thumb tracing calm into my wrist.

I resent the body for keeping what the future refused.

I place right person wrong time between us and ask you not to soften it.

I watch apology gather behind your teeth.

I touch a torn map to keep my hands from reaching for you.

I follow your words until they reach what you decided.

I understand the wound when our love is ready while our lives are not.

I breathe through the second that rearranges us.

I move toward the upper deck because the room has become too small.

I freeze as your palm finds the center of my back.

I let our foreheads nearly touch.

I hold still while your final words gather.

I reach for you inside the ferry after the storm, but our love is ready while our lives are not.