Blind Faith

I'm hand-led down six steps that hm-haw with our weight
Eyes closed, we slow and stop
He's releasing my hand, but it is still held in space, as though frozen
I ask, "Can I open my eyes yet?"
His shush is like two fingers pinching out a flame
He's saying no and before I can steal my eyelids open,
His hand is over eyes.
I smell his cologne
that I had watched him dab onto his wrists before we left
He had said "come on"
and I had said "ok" and followed.
He had said "this way"
and I had laughed, eyes still closed, and said "all right"
Now I feel his warm smile on the back of my neck
I feel one hand over my eyes and the other at my hip.
He whispers in my ear, "Where are we?"
I hold the hand over my eyes and take it from my face
without looking, I feel his fingers and stretch my own hand in his palm.
"You are here," I say.
His whisper is the wind at my shaggy hair.
"Always," he says.
The frozen ground bites my shins as I kneel and open my eyes.
I replace the flowers and throw the carcasses in the trash as I go.
At home, I am curled up on the couch with a book that I'm not reading and a wine glass full of water.
We gave up drinking together
and I will never break that habit
for him