You ask for dinner ideas over coffee,
or when we lay in bed.
I study the indent of your cheek,
the white-grey speckle of your jaw,
the impossible beauty of whiskers and skin,
tanned even in winter. You add ingredients to the list.
You want the answers, and I
have no use for cooking, if I can't also catch your eyes,
and soften them,
wrap my whole self around you from behind,
drink wine at the table and watch
as you move across the confines of the kitchen
I don't know how
you can listen to a song and not cry,
or watch me buckle under the pressure of emotion
when grief rises up into the belly of the room,
and still stay so focused.
As if this was always part of the plan.
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