When we finally got there,
you said that you had never been.
You are wrong.

Because on one July 22,
we all sat in the harsh light,
excited about the coming week.

You had great colorful plans.
You made me laugh.
I wrote about you.
I didn't know anything then,
but I know now that was the first time you made me smile.

But now as we filter in,
alone and in the dark,
we sat on opposite sides of the couch.

I hardly made eye contact.
I wish I tried to read you.
All I know is that you sat motionlessly,
hands in your lap,
for once kept to yourself as I slowly peeled back my cuticles.

I just remember staring at your sweater,
I thought it was funny how much it looked like mine.

Two months ago I just wanted your arm around me.
Today I wish I didn't squeeze so hard.

I realized that for the first time,
I'm no longer craving your fingers dancing across my spine.
I'm no longer craving you.

Stillness rests in the air,
I'm not sure if it's good yet.

Because this house will forever be still
and restless.
Like the individual,
tossing and turning
In that kingsized bed,
meant for more than one.

Or the two faint voices,
whispering into the night,
writing worries
for their little monsters to eat,
because who is going to tell them no.

Even the grandiose silver portrait,
looming over the home,
seems sadder than ever,
as she makes eye contact with the dog,
who's gloom pairs quietly with the lighting

Or the little one curled on my chest,
with his last sentence before slumber:
"I really miss baba"
ringing in my ears.

You took what I had slowly chipped away,
and carved flourishes into what's left.

For the longest time,
I kept it to myself,
Thinking it was our little beauty.

Slowly, my mind is changing
for I have fallen in love with how it sits in my mouth,
Quietly whispering to myself in the dark.

The other day,
it fumbled out of my hands and into the arms of someone else,
And while I heard your voice as they turned it over,
I think it is most beautiful in the light.