I think a smooth black stone is only a keepsake. Then I meet identity through love again at the lake house in October.

I find you waiting inside the lake house in October, exactly where memory puts you.

I feel woodsmoke caught in my hair as you turn toward me.

I touch a smooth black stone after your fingers leave it.

I hear my own pulse insist that I need to recognize myself beside us.

I step closer when a hidden letter falls from beneath the floorboards.

I ask whether you expected to see me tonight.

I feel your breath change beside the narrow dock.

I feel the old shape of your hand around my cold fingers.

I learn again that touch can outlive permission.

I ask for the truth of identity through love without decoration.

I recognize the careful voice you use before hurting me.

I move a smooth black stone between our hands like a boundary.

I hear every reason and search for one choice.

I realize that I became fluent in your needs and mute in mine.

I let the truth land without bargaining.

I carry a smooth black stone toward the narrow dock without looking back.

I feel your hand close gently around my sleeve.

I turn close enough to feel your breath.

I watch you choose whether to close the remaining distance.

I reach for you inside the lake house in October, but I became fluent in your needs and mute in mine.