Magic

Everything feels

so hard and it’s

raining outside.

Sleep is hard; I blame

hormones. But red wine

lingers, telling another story.

In my mind
I see you as you
were - on the opposite edge

of the couch,

legs stretched across

my lap and a million

miles from me.

You take my hand,

say something sweet.

But distance makes translation
difficult-the tender heart that
flourished in
morning love made hours

before buttons possibility

in a dense cell coat.

I wonder, then, about magic.

And -
if there is enough,
between us and
the million miles stretched therein,

to sustain.

If wanting is all that is required, we

are home, my love.

We are home.
Morning bursts full
and alive; we can rest in her

arms.

Tell me, again, something sweet.