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I could stay here for a while, I think,

and that comes as a surprise,

because she insists

we’re not like that,

even if I know perfectly well she’s grasping at straws.

Only three months in,

and we already can’t fool ourselves.



My flat for a change,

late afternoon sun floating through the windows

to dapple and dance over forearms and sides and hips

in a way that’s almost inspiring.



It’s just how you look

so gloriously perfect lying there,

dozing in warm summer light,

sheet molding to your sleeping curves,

your hand soft in mine,

fingers twining in a way that is

supremely fascinating.

And I want to stay.


The surprise is not that I want to stay

with you in this bed,

because I want to stay wrapped up in you

for as long as I can.


I don’t want the gilded girls

I could find elsewhere, not anymore.

I don’t want perfection, flawlessness,

I don’t want to leave, to travel unless it is with you,

And right now, looking at your hip and holding your hand,

I know why, and that’s the true surprise.



And it’s simple,

simple as air and sheets on a bed.

We’re equal here,

and we’re equal out there, partners,

just you and me, together and apart.


And we don’t say the things we should,

and can’t say the things we would,

But I know, and I know you know too,

That you’re for me and I’m for you,

simple as that,

and that’s really no surprise at all.





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