I'm knee-deep in adorations
and my hair has been turning white
for a year now. I haven't yet learned
how to sleep well next to him.
I wake up often, too hot and then too cold,
from dreams that make no sense or
perfect sense or backwards sense
or beautiful sense. Sometimes
he calls me darling and I let it echo
a bit before I say something back
that disrupts the syllables swimming
through the air. I worry,
like mixing honey and sea salt;
a wooden floor that kisses your soles
and warns that it could drop away
at any given moment.
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