Are you just going to stand there and
Watch me peel this garlic, she asks.
I shrug with a slight smile.
Beer to my lips, and I catch her moving
The way a dancer does when she doesn't
Dance.
What is art?
This.
The juggling of seconds that contain
Something more than all of those
Without her.
We could be on a midsummer
Balcony in Venice, or
In a barley field in Provence, mid-
Kiss and laughing so soothingly the
Sun doesn't even feel like it takes.
Red skinned by sun-down, sipping
Local wine and asking ourselves
How the Hell life became so
Liveable. But she's in my kitchen, *not
Dancing across the worn down linoleum
With a freshly peeled piece of garlic in
Her hands, and I just found the key to
The treasure chest that contains
All the reasons I have to keep
Breathing instead of not
To.