I hurl headlong into bed next to you
the way I imagine a body might land
after it jumps from a burning building.
You are reading that dog-eared
copy of The Last Castle.
Take-four, since becoming parents
and public library outlaws.
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The first time you embarked
the leisure of a novel
was moons ago and we were rosy
at the remote end of the lake
under a vanilla sky --
Our favourite Hollywood cliche
to steal moments underneath.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I squint through one flickering eye
like a moth against a window pane
and notice that you look
exactly the same
as you did skipping stones across the
upside-down glass cedars.
There's a hint of a footprint
where the brazen blackbird
narrowly missed your eye
with his gentle stamp.
Other than this faint kiss of time,
you look the same.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
A car sighs past our bedroom.
You turn a worn page
and unconsciously
reach across the rumpled
bed linens to rest your hand
on the the blade of my shoulder.
My heart skips like the pebble
across the cool mirrored sky
a few beats
skimming sleep.
Somewhere still
a gentle wave laps the shore.
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