He turns over in his sleep,
wanting to be sure I am out of harm’s way,
though the language spoken is of dreams.
Laughing until we tear up,
knowing this interlude will be forgotten
with the coming of morn.
I pull into myself then;
watch the steady rise and fall of ribs
as familiar to me as my own skin,
knowing what is temporal is fragile;
that it will end all too soon.
We just don’t know when.
Life does not play favorites.
What is precious or repugnant –
neither endures forever.
My love must coexist with pragmatism,
for in order to discover the depth and breadth of joy,
embracing impermanence is the only option;
savoring each moment
for the miracle it is.