haste to haste

would there be a reason to rest like this against the other direction? 

leaning onto the back of a rough tree. never even close to a missionary.
never even close to the humming your body used to make & the mutable shoulders- could have been throwing rocks all this time. 

haste to haste, we used to say. 
we used to say, my lover smells like a gun, after j. winterson. the swallow of the past, the nostalgic & her wavering. scratches on the back again in the timid shape of letters.