On poker nights
I go to bed alone, but
my body doesn’t produce
enough warmth to heat
the bed without you so
eventually I steal our children
from their room
and hold the parts of you
found in them
until we warm the space
you left behind.
I find you in the
mole on the
nape of our
oldest son’s
neck. In the widow’s
peak on the boy who
wrestles, even in his sleep,
the one who came into this
world fighting.
I find my love for you
when I finally, reluctantly,
lay our youngest down to
grow another night.
I miss him like I used to
miss you.
When love was something I
I thought I could obtain,
control.
I think it’s wilder now,
this love without expectations.
This love that gives you
and me
the space
to be.
I’m finally comforted by
and no longer weary that
it will take
a lifetime to
love you well.
