I have played this game before.
My accolades adorn the walls.
This pull-push dance is tiring.

This time,
when I see myself
being pulled into the whirlpool—
I let it.

Drown me, baby.
Show me how love works.

I’ll wait for the little things:
the stolen glances,
the awkward silence.

I hope you are the other end,
your arms stretched out.
I want to run to you
and tell our daughter:

This is what love is.

I will tell her—
someday, a man will come.
And when you set out
to write about sorrow,
you will smile,
thinking of his warmth.