You sip Kombucha from a wine glass
and turn the tap with the tip of your toe.
I watch you sink into this 3 a.m. bubble bath
with no more than a sigh.
You, who whispers shaky affirmations
to our reflection in the rearview:
My body is
strong. My body is
beautiful.
You, who plays guitar without a pick because you don’t want the world to hear you sing. Meanwhile, I hum to your existence like it’s my favorite song.
Tomorrow, or later on,
you’ll wake, starfished in the center of your bed,
a feather of sunlight tickling your cheek.
Your dad’s old Cowboys shirt swaying mid-thigh,
you’ll dance barefoot in the kitchen to Nat King Cole,
scrambling soul into your eggs.
You’ll sit on the front porch with your coffee
and watch the clouds walk the neighborhood dogs.
Meanwhile, I’ll measure the space between your breath
and rest in the shade of your ribcage.
Even now as I watch you from beneath the surface,
I catch halos in the ripples.
Your eyes flutter shut as you meditate
on the Sparrows outside your window.
Meanwhile, I meditate
on your heart.
I pick it up like a river stone,
rub it between my index and thumb
until it’s smooth and fits in my back pocket.
I hold it up to the light like a film reel
to see what it’s made of.
I place it in a vase on the windowsill
and marvel at how it blossoms without thirst.
I cup it to my ear like a seashell
and listen to the waves crash,
to the steady drip of sighs falling from your faucet,
to the Sparrows as they nest on your pillow —
I listen to the sweet, sweet promise
of another morning with you in it.