You are waking up on Sunday morning. We have nowhere to be so we make forts out of couch cushions and I listen to you like holy sermon. I am not religious and never have been, but you make me rethink my position on God. You have me believing my hands have waited twenty-three years to sculpt a figure like you.

Because you,
you are a Sistine Chapel of a man and there are times I can’t believe I’m the one who gets to paint you at night. My fingers still hesitate sometimes and I don’t know why it’s so scary to be steady with you. Maybe history repeats itself and I’ve read enough textbooks to prepare my heart,
To prepare for endings,
To prepare for surrenders and ships setting out before dawn.
But I am finally learning how to stay put,
to not flight at the first fight.
I am used to a trigger impulse
of running
and not looking back.

Darling, I keep looking back.

And you keep being there,
with me.

You are waking up on a Sunday morning. And we are waking up on Monday. And Tuesday. And Wednesday. And for the first time in so long, I like it. I like having you with me.