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.



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