February 10, 2011

When I walk in I can still smell our cooking from the night before

orange and ginger pork chops
hurried pasta with chunky sauce
vindaloo over rice
spinach casserole with too much cheese

our shared domesticity continues to astounds me.

The bedroom still smells of fresh paint
'periwinkle' you said, cover in flecks of it

I painted the trim and the parts I could reach
over the corkscrew that had been spray-painted on
by someone who is gone
covering the bad memories, the hurt
with a soothing blue-gray
we slept well that night.

Spent.

We're settling into it, each other
it's strange
I feel my heart leap when the key turns in the lock
maybe that's temporary but somehow,
no
I don't anticipate that fading.

My solitude is just that
time by myself, without you
I relish it and find a place within myself for it
like I found one for you
that I didn't know ws there until you found it
-all that seems so long ago, now.

And now here we are.

I find I am always picking out furniture for our home in my mind.