When we first met it was summer and January blew hot around us sitting on your doorstep kissing but I had dreamed of loving you long before as if my heart had bent your way, a shaded flower seeking sun. This was when I was in Europe riding buses, trains and other people’s cars to places that were the same one after the other and I pushed myself shy of you to crowds in Portugal in Spain in Morocco in southern France and drowning drinking games in bars. You weren’t yet old enough to be abroad and we could never have met then though I wished we would and read the faces hard for signs of you. If I believed in God and destiny and things written in a book, I would rise up and up on high look down at the tracks we laid before we made it to that door, that time, that place. You know, I think I’d find Nazca lines, geoglyphs of mine and yours entwined all along the desert sands. Such pictograms may yet be there as permanent as stars as irresistible as lovers who seek and seek and seek again until they find each other.