Some time in January 2013

You are in my house, the one I see while I sleep, even though I’ve not seen your face in years and I’ve had many lives since the beautiful love we decided not to have.

You carry timber even though I don’t ask you to. You catch fish for dinner and set the fire.

When the flames crackle your cigarette goes lifeless and you trade smoke for heat.

When I pour us more bourbon your voice turns sweet and your eyes flicker softly as you fill the silence knowing I don’t wish to speak.

The kindness exists in the lively moments that dance on the cusp of sleeping and awake. We coax each other into a few last words in the permissibilty of night.

When we wake the light is green-blue and frigid. We rub our eyes awake, facing opposite directions, back to back, deciding what to say as our first words. We settle for silence.

You go make coffee. We go for a morning walk among the trees. We talk about our plans for the day like we’re listing reasons we can’t be together.

I take the care and you take to the river. All day I devise plans to repair the damage, get things back to the way they were. By the time I get back to the house, you’ve started dinner and left me a bourbon by the sink. My smile appears and I’m exited to see you, like it’s been months since we last talked.

The sun sets and your eyes flicker softly in the direction of the horizon. I want to be as beautiful as the sunset to you. I reach out to cradle your elbow and I catch your smile, intended for the skyline. You don’t mind giving it to me and I don’t mind taking it.

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