Russell Justwrite 7 The sign is not

The sign is not true, and I don't have a word for this direction. I would drive six and a half hours to see you if I had six and a half hours, if I could drive, if I remembered who you are. I stare at the surface of a creek, expecting it to slow enough that I can see my reflection, but it only stops when it freezes, ice as opaque as skin. In the summer, I sprout freckles, like a thousand secret touches invisible until now. I expect them to melt like snowflakes on my tongue, sugar grains dissolving, my grandmother tossing salt over her left shoulder, the storm clouds coming in across her right. You told me once that you'd draw me a map if I needed it, but it's only showing me where I've been, my footprints fading, my footsteps an echo, my body a sunset on the last day you could see. I hope that I am warm enough to reach inside your skin, coax your secrets to the surface and tell them not to melt. When the rain comes in the summer, it falls hard, slamming itself against tin roofs and tender, closed heads of daisies, their leaves reaching up, one to cover their blank faces, one to catch the drops. I want to fall gently, a creek flowing down a hill that is almost flat, trickling, every movement a song, never quite slowing enough to reflect.