Your secrets, encoded in freckles and moles on arms and legs.

So secret, if I could speak directly to you through soup cans, the twine would spontaneously 
ignite.

Your stories, hidden gospels, and I, the heretic who decodes them.

I follow your paper trails, nearly invisible, ever so silver, murmuring snails under a milk moon. 
Pale as dust from a moth wing.

Your histories, like gravel chips from a boulder. Timelines, fragmented as broken blue glass 
washed up on beaches miles apart.

Once I learn to gather ash from bonfires, reverse combustion, piece together trees from 
amputated limbs, I will knock on your door a hundred years ago.

You will pretend nobody’s home.