I’m stuck in a memory this morning,
or rather a pointillism piece of pinpricks
and patches and little bits of dancing:
toothpaste tea that burned my hands,
twin knit hats sneezing cardboard dust,
a fire that burned when the wood was gone.
It would never work. We know that.
We know that. Our sky or our ceiling,
we both know which. We’ve said it now
too many times, in too many ways that hurt.
But if I had to get married tomorrow,
it would be you. I’d run at a dead set
sprint down any aisle that would hold us.
You’d sweep me in your arms in a chain
link dress and laugh because my skin
turned to summer when you kissed me.
Fortunately or not, we both have time.
Buckets and rivers and mountains of time
to love and to loose and to lean against
arms that are stronger than ours.
I don’t have to get married tomorrow.
I almost wish I did.
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