I move around his body like glass or a fragile plant,
skirting its edges, touching it only with cupped
hands, feeding & watering on careful schedule.
I fear the finality of his presence, the fullness
of his being here. his lungs, life, picked
up and dragged cross country for what?
proximity, to sleep with sheets instead of states
between us. milkshakes nearly every day
in this summer that won’t break
and a dog for each of us. it’s everything
we wanted but the thing about satisfaction
is it doesn’t last. we’re on the edge of what
could go wrong. the scale could tip so many
ways: I leave chocolate out for an empty house
and the dogs turn up dead, we forget how
and why we used to fuck, he refuses hand towels
that match the curtains. our indulgences
grow foreign and soon don’t indulge in each other.
I wish I wasn’t scared of so many ways
we could end up. I want to move
through this city like a lover. unencumbered
by the weight of what we have already
given up. I want to see more futures
of us, park benched and satisfied
with our sweet small lives.