You draw your shirt closed over your breasts, lining up the buttons until they kiss the soft spot beneath your chin, shoes abandoned at the doorstep. You are gifting me this truth: you have left willingly, and all that I am is tucked inside your skin. We rouse the same hour of dawn, with enough time to chase after you. We ready our rifle, the silver gleam of metal the color of your eyes. The rain softens the ground outside, and your tracks are easy to follow. We believe this to be your mishap. You have named us Älskling in every iteration of your hunt and come into our houses invited. Into the red-paint wooden one with the apple trees, the one with broken windows, the stable where we slept on the hay, the yellow cottage by the brook with nothing but a bronze kettle in the kitchen. You appear in the yard, or outside the window with a knock, or by the maypole in your summer dress, or in the rain with your hair …

Boyfriend writhes around on top of me and gazes hungrily into my eyes. He exclaims that he loves me and life is amazing and this feels so great. I do not respond. I am traveling back in time, returning to the church where I first saw Him. The height of summer, and yet I wear my small patent leather shoes and my woven white tights. I stand at the bottom of the basement stairwell, and my sweaty little hands rattle a doorknob. The metal is warm and the gold plating flakes onto my skin. Mother Mary looks down at me from the stained glass in the window, her eyes downcast. Sad Mother Mary. I hear heavy breathing, turn around, and He is behind me. With His strong and capable hands, He turns the knob. We go behind the door. I see flashes: His long brown hair; His critical expression; His slender torso. Movements that amaze and confuse me, illuminated by His glow. It comes from within. After a time incalculable, my hand grips the knob …