He is oak, and I’m mistletoe, winding his trunk, I travel his limbs, curling the extent of him. I am the spur joined to his heel; we are a worthy pair, well matched in a renewal of magic. I creep along his frame in advance of his vanishing act, a final parting, blinding white, parting white. A last shirt shrugged and fastened, the fleeting whiff of pressed clothes, wafting his leaving, trailing tome on the vibrating, exposed atmosphere of departure. I am at the window clothed in a veil of lace, wrapped in creamy white, parting white.