The Weight

Come here.  I want to tell you something.

The day is over now but night hasn’t yet arrived.
It’s that in-between time.
The Gloaming.
You hate The Gloaming.
It makes you feel like you’re suffocating there between the sun and the moon;
the two of them pressing against you from either side;
one giving,
one taking.
Come here and take this walk with me down to the rivers edge.
There’s a patch of spider lily’s there I know you’d like to see
and they look perfect in this light,
their red spider fingers

reaching up and then curling down into themselves.
Bring your camera.
I know you’ll get a perfect picture in the waning light of this day.

Will you print it and frame it for me? 
My birthday is coming up.

Now, take my hand.  
Walk with me along this moonlit path back to our house.

I brought the medicine for your headache. 
I’m just going to put these two brown pills right here

next to this cold glass of water.
You’ve been working all day and I saw you leaned back in your chair.
Your eyes closed,
your hands laced together in your lap.

It’s midnight in summer and jazzy blues are coming in soft waves from the speaker;
I’ve left the windows in the bedroom open all day
and the air is thick with the sweet bloom of the magnolia tree down below.

I won’t let go of this breath I’ve been holding for you
until I hear the mattress creak underneath your weight.

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