In the morning, over coffee
as you read the book I have dog-eared for you, I will
lift your arm and bring your wrist to my lips first,
and then my ear, and listen.

You will joke about the ocean, and I will shush you,
a routine. We’ll fall back into silence, and I will
just faintly,
hear your pulse.

I will lie over your left breast as we sleep,
my favorite side of you.
Whenever you hold someone close,
I will be envious that in that moment
they hear you and feel you beat and I cannot.
I will not grow angry or spiteful,
But I will envy.

When we grow old,
I will press my ear to your belly
and you will hold my hand over your heart,
our hair now different shades of the same color,
our skin still the same fabric on different bodies.