There is an imagining of me and you building a life.
I am much stronger, you are more patient, and together
we dig deep to bury trees in a yard crafted
on morning coffee and late night wine.
You get angry because I forget to pick up after myself,
and I get irritated because I’m pretty sure you resent
how much I love the cat.
There is a wobbly chair on the front porch,
our first and last attempt at carpentry,
and there are weeds sprouting up between
cracks in the back patio.
I swear your shoulder is the best place to rest my head,
and you keep kneading at my stomach
like a kitten or infant, as we lay
on a hammock in the backyard.
I love you from the place past my lungs,
between each side of my ribcage,
and further in than anyone has been.
I can feel it swelling and radiating,
can you?
Can you feel how heavy my love is?