Pillow Book

Here and Here


(On a scrap of paper tucked into the pocket where Dean keeps his car keys. He found the note - but not the keys - when he headed out to take a hunt solo while Sam was injured.)




Quizzing each other over dinner or
In the back seat. Chem tests, Latin, baseball
Scores. Geekboy, you'd say, but you reeled off names
Of movie stars, and never flunked a test.

Sixteen ways to break a bone: you taught me
That. Sparring round the room, flushed triumphant.
Till that time I learned the lesson a little
Too well: broke your wrist. You winced and swore, proud.

Stock, forearm, pistol grip. Your hands pick out
Each piece by name, unerring. You taught me
To break down and rebuild; clean, grease, reload
But I could never learn this peace in motion.

I trace slow paths across your skin. Count each
Mark anew, learn and relearn every scar.
Not mapping but knowing, you said, but I
Travel into unknown territory.

I don't know the story behind every scar
You got those four years. Each day I find new
Ways to touch your skin. I'm still learning, Dean:
No amount of time could ever be enough.