In the morning (September 26, 2016)

You proudly make me eggs and
add chopped mushrooms and garlic.
The strawberries wait for me in a blue ceramic dish,
and we listen to indie music.

We sit kitty corner to one another and

sip on coffee with 2% milk (even though I don’t drink coffee,

not until you).

I rest on the couch as you read The New Yorker to me
and use animated voices to make a point,
to carry a story,
to carry me.

I throw a long sleeve shirt into the pannier for when the breeze
picks up
because it will and it does,
and we both know that,

even though we don’t know much else.

As we bike you let me ride first so I am safe

with your gaze upon me.

Sometimes I forget life before you,
and I only want to know life with you.
In the morning I am reminded of my wholeness as the
autumnal sunshine keeps us

warm behind the window.

The trees overhead intersect and distract my eyes
from the unknown,

at least for awhile.

Sometimes I’m so scared of the day ahead
that I can’t guarantee myself anything beyond the breath I’m in
and your hand holding mine
as we walk to the subway
and

begin (all over again),

Your Higher Self

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