The first time I met you we *censored*ed,
             going down in a tangle of energy in the dark room
             like the blue light that shoots from a socket
             when a cord is tugged carelessly from a wall.
             Are you here with me? rolled over and over in my head
             as we climbed and slapped at each other,
             coming up different paths to reach the same destination
             There's a mountain top that exists in a dream and another
             I know is real, though the dreamed one might have been pulled
             from memory. The first is a light green meadow of new grass
             near a dirt path, covered in sunshine and wildflowers. I was small
             when I lay there. Perhaps there was fresh cut hay, or horses.
             I can't remember who brought me there, but summertime lolled slowly around me,
             strung together days. The second peak I'm sure I've been to--because of the photograph,
             because I remember each grunting, sweating step.
             It was barren, with flat grey rock and small tufts of dried grass. We were so high
             we had passed the tree line. The view went on for miles.
             When we *censored* I hold you tightly now, lest your body become
             another flowered hilltop, another place I'm not sure I've been.
             Let me feel the climb, the ache, the exhaustion. Mark this:
             I want to remember the journey, what I held along the way.
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