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in these quiet small hours of the night
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You still sit beside me as I rested after a long day,
brushing my hair out of my face.
At dusk we go into the kitchen,
you wash the lettuce and tell me about your day,
I laugh, forget things, and cut carrots into funny shapes.
And there are breadcrumbs and spilled wine on the tablecloth,
we still haven’t quite figured out how to be better at this,
but in the fading sunlight we are learning, God we are learning.
Before falling asleep
I look for your hand to touch mine.
Love is not difficult.
Not difficult at all.
I want to read the story
that you would have written
if you weren’t afraid, he said,
tell me where you have been,
the nameless cliff that you
fell from, turn it to words,
and keep writing until
it has lost its power
to hurt you.