"Open, to love?" He inquires.
"Keep your voice down," she insists in a near whisper. "They'll hear you."
He frowns.
"Please don't be sad." She attempts to soothe.
She feels tonight an afterthought,
but she never forgets.
Usually.
She climbs the mountain face
in a host of ropes and chores,
he is below it, entangled in the throes
of his own pressures.
She regrets looking so curious at him
during Sunday nap time,
right after his ********* had put her
on the ninth cloud.
There's the memory of
the rocket landing,
followed by a pilgrimage of stars,
and his heartfelt song
about her *******
She recalls being tied to the tracks,
and all the inherent noise
of his uphill engine
about to blow its stack.
It meant the world to him.
"Perhaps tomorrow night..." She tries to appease him with.
Until she remembers she is
a committed wife,
and this is the thing they schedule
on Wednesdays after the kids
are settled in bed.
She gifts him a warm smile,
and he returns an understanding one.
It means the world to her.