23 February 2008, 9:29 PM
For not taking that job in California
or the one in Seattle,
even when ends wouldn’t meet.
For stories, wine and laughter, for telling me
about your home, for bringing mine to me
and holding the door,
walking up and down the stairs
with me, behind and before me,
For touching my face,
for holding my hand
in the streets and pill-boxes of Paris.
For open windows and forgotten passports
which in the end really didn’t matter,
because you gazed at me and I at you
over café au lait instead, and it’s not such a loss
to be stranded in the City of Lights.
For flannel and jeans and fine art on the walls,
the long-lost lifesong of your Beloved evident
in every room of the place we call home.
For falling asleep with your hand
on my heart, your breath mingling
with the scent of our bed,
the line between self and other blurred
in a way that does not rob us of our selves
as we find our rest, naked and unashamed.