ten years ago
when you picked out a house
for our future
when i was too distracted
to notice
you meant it
that house
is looking perfect
for us now
and the five children
you envisioned
rolling around on the lawn
with no shoes
children should never be in shoes
you said
they should never care about clothes
or drinking lemonade at midnight
or going inside just because I said so
I dismissed your romanticism
but I finally agree
this is true
that we should rest at the end of every evening
together
with a drink in our hands
and casual conversations
wrap our fingers around
napkins that match the new couch
your mother bought us
we should marry
plant a garden
replace the lights
take turns with the trash
watch our kids catch fireflies
and discuss
changes in our neighborhood
from our front porch swing
let our skin grow old together
I have since tossed and turned
in the sheets
staring at the ceiling
at all hours of the night
picturing the Sunday
you picked out the house
I wasn't brave enough
to step into
and longingly desperately now
to assure you
that i am ready to inhabit it.
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