How I Pass my Days These Days

I trace the long, slow arc of sun across the window. I read too many books, wait for your puzzles and shy laugh.

You have strangely gentle hands, flickering like nervous birds. I fear your goodness, thinking on it, wondering if my dark jokes have struck somewhere soft and silent. If anything, you teach me to choose my words carefully.

I comfort myself, since you are so far away, remembering the line of your jaw. We create small joys, and so it is mainly small joys I imagine, the quick laugh and flick of the eyes, your rambling stories unfolding coltishly.

You are not like me. Tonight I spilled half a jar of almond essence and laughed and tasted amaretto, my room is strewn with clothes and jewelry, I don't even wince when someone spills wine on the new sofa cover. I laugh too loudly, speak too often.

But I'm already there, with you. I sit on the windowsill and pet your wicked little cat, she wiggles out of reach and you stop to put your lips to mine, quickly, not interrupting your concentration on your recipe.