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You’d walk out the door
five mornings a week
before the sun could
claim the day as its own
and you’d leave behind
more than your scent
on the bed and the shirts
that you’ve worn,
your laughter and our
warm, fuzzy silences
lean on the countertop and
drape over chairs
for me to sort out
in my sweet time
and arrange on the racks,
drawers and cupboards
in the bedroom where
I am a lover
and the kitchen where
I am queen.
Alone, I’d make a method
of pulling up the blinds on
every window in the house,
because the view makes me
feel larger than life, and
somehow I want to be found
by the selfsame force that
sends everybody else to
their waiting destinations,
as if our love and this
sleepy, languid wait
for the coming of spring
dare not obstruct
the circling of lapwings
or the flow of time,
even with an old dusty
layer of glass, and here
in the prism of space
where we sleep, and eat,
and grow in love,
where my solitude
like dreams at dawn
is silken and purple,
I’d gather your echoes
in my arms and
watch the world outside,
freshly brewed
from rich, dark grounds,
and breathe your scent
and your whispered presence
and your impending return
while the earth slowly turns
and the house we call home
admits the brightness
and the warmth,
and becomes it.

“Hanna and Wes Civil Ceremony” by photographer Becca Dilley


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