We haul your sofa from Nambe and jump when spiders reach out from corners of the antiquities

Shag carpet hunting and navigating the thrill of the unknowns in the hardware store

We sleep hot in my sheets but I still reach to touch a foot, a back. In the morning we snooze to center and come back to the cuddle.

I miss you in the future lifetimes and I dream of things I had never compromised before

Babies and hard work and deep sleeps and the impossible joyful confusion of a happy marriage. Things I don’t know. But I know.

I pad around the floors and remember that I am always fine. I call my mom from the windy warm dog park and tell her things like yes I’ve been working hard and gosh it’ll be nice to be together again and I tell her I’m in love in sideways words and she knows. She always knows. I wonder how many times we are allowed to witness certain feeling stir up in the mud of the heart. A quotient allowance of joy. I wonder how many times the things we carve will taste good and I wonder if I will ever stop wanting to crawl into the sun and rest

I bike home from work to let my body crumple on the dusty brick floor where the sugar ants match and cry for the ones who pass and the collective loss of here. I let myself curl into the weight of grief. That non linear pavement that runs into the “maybe things will ease up” prayers fills the rooms and I can’t help but understand how much it stings. The stuckness of it all

I say goodbye and hello in the same breath these days because behind every full moon is the heavy slosh of moving forward.

Even in the impossible joy.

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