You lean toward me in the middle of a crowded room.
‘Do you wanna go home?’ You whisper in my ear.
You could look at me like that for years. I’d always put down my
wine glass to follow you.
Even though we’re going to our separate beds under our separate
roofs, we act as though ‘going home’ means our
home. Maybe that space already exists.
We’ve been building the foundation for years. Bricks, windows, the
front door. Everything is solid. All that’s left is to cover the walls in bright
blues that look like a clear sky and your eyes.
We say our goodbyes. Your hand on my shoulder and mine touching your
cheek.
I’m not sure if it’s habit or comfort or us trying to feel how the
other feels.
As though our skin will reveal braille that will tell us what we’re
not ready to admit. The freckles on my shoulder tells you almost and your dimples tells me soon.
Last night you called me the time of day you look forward to. As
though I’m on your watch instead of 7.34pm.
As though instead of eating dinner, you binge on me.
You call me ‘Babe’ and compare me to honey.
I tell you ‘You’re so bright’, but that doesn’t quite cover the
planets that collide or the bridges that burn when you ask if you want to leave
the party.
You drive me home and in the silence we decorate rooms.
Our kitchen table holds a vase filled with sunflowers and your shoes
are by the front door and our toothbrushes sit side-by-side in the same cup.
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