the oldest thing i know

tonight i arrive home to an empty house, as i have been doing lately. i air up the back tire of your bike with surprising ease, as yesterday's attempt at it had ended in frustrated failure. off we go, Finn and I. i aim him downtown. he takes me there flying.
we pass the memorial where everyone is hushed. pass the construction.
dirt, sand, broken gravel = grit in my eyes when the bus passes.
we round the block near IAO Gallery, and head back west. i soar over sidewalks and slow to observe the circular brick patterns in the ground near a sitting area. i feel you there, as i feel you everywhere. i sent you a photo with a caption about how i wished you could be with me to see the evening light fading. but i realize, as my data launches into space, you did. you see everything i see. i take you everywhere i go.
when i looked up from between the buildings, through the trees lining the street, and watched the birds fly up and away as if just for me, you saw them too. the sun setting over the horizon. the deep rumble and overwhelming sense of size as a train passed over me on the bridge. the smell of damp tree bark and watered lawns. you saw, felt, heard. everything i hold inside me is sorted by your soul each night. inventory of our lives.

"at night falling asleep they dream the same dream, where they watch fire move along a rope that binds them together" -Anne Carson

you sent this to me in a text once, saying I reminded you of that quote. our rope stretched taut and thickened by the day when you were in Africa. you were thousands of miles away, we were new. but i feel it as much now as i felt it then. the same as i have felt you my whole life. so according to time we're still "new," but you will always be the newest and oldest thing i know.

(pretty sure you hate this photograph, but i love it)