The Cartographer

I have navigated your open roads
and travelled your uncharted territories,
kicked around your back streets
and slept under your warm night skies.
But ever since we tore down the highway
between my new city and you,
the map of you in my mind
is growing blank spots and losing lines.
I forget some of your shortcuts and
the exact trails of your bus routes.
I ask about a street name you never had
and you turn away from me,
disappointment in your streetlight eyes.
In me you expected a permanent resident,
an archivist, not a tourist.

In Silence

You took me to a ravine,
where snowy hills
rolled up on either side of us.
They stilled the wind
and hushed the city noise.
In their presence
I could not speak;
I passed my words
in telegraph pulses
to your hand.