One morning I left, kissed you goodbye
in the sun to the humming of a lawn mower,
your coffee mug carried some motivating script.
I returned, same sunset, different Thursday
so often snagged on repeat in our heads
I took my boots off in the foyer,
I left them in the middle of the floor
you tripped dramatically as you
looked at them, looked at me,
I’d came back broken and you knew it.
But you didn’t
fold your hands in your lap
didn’t call your mother for advice,
leave the room when I entered,
what do I do
will she come back.
Instead you lifted me
beneath the arms,
placed my feet on top of yours,
I placed my cheek on your armor-chest
and we marveled and swayed
falling together in and out
of sun and moonlight.
I fell asleep, eventually
and you held your breath
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