For months even, as we take turns, unevenly, cleaning up
after the kids.
laughter in each other’s eyes, and the soft graze of your fingertips on the
back of my hand.
the shadow of it that time we’ll pass a fire hydrant painted green. We’ll be too tired to say anything about it.
just fall into bed, with maybe a peck, and maybe just rolling over.
apartment knowing that this decadent solitude wouldn’t last, that I would share my
space with someone eventually.
clean my dishes, it’s true. But I’ll make the bed. And you’ll tell that story about the thunderstorm at basecamp until I harden against hearing it anymore.
meant to happen. And there will be small pocket-, breath-sized moments
when I won’t remember, but I’ll be introduced to it again, new.
more than you. I’ll notice how the skin on your face begins to sag forward when you’re on top of me. And there will be no helping my breasts.
And I will be jealous, but I will be human, too.
we’ll talk about it. The way I am more strict with her than I am with him will
like a satellite burning a reentry through the atmosphere. We’ll forget the
tentative and amazed way our faces looked when we first came in each other’s
so can’t understand in the other.
stay the course. Unless it’s truly burning down, we will hold tight during the
less-so times, we will try to remember the intimacy of small moments: to hold a
door, to whisper a thanks, to hug and be still with one another.