you were a habit, 

but less like binging than 
like breathing -- 

i saw you daily as 
a part-filmed spirit 

reflections on a lake 
i'd never been to, 
let alone 

been in 

but after years made 
out of frayed yarn 

there came an apple-day when 

there, from a tree in 
a lost backyard 

we climbed a stepladder 
our heads among the fresh leaves 

and you 

you could not have been

more different