all the loves within me bury their heads at the sound of his key in the door. in the waiting time, they have danced in the foldings of my guts, hunkering beneath a fort of memory and longing, telling stories in the dark and lulling me into the forgotten soft spots of sour love. beams of sunlight have cut across the window panes, sparking dust into firestorms, and cutting bright angles across our current corners.

I was often isolated in love before him, and learned the cracks of the side streets well, walking them as I did every day with you hitched on my hip. your words were meant for birds and leaves and the heavens then, and so we were both content for you to babble and me to daydream about lives beyond the solitude of those instants. and then a pipe burst somewhere deep within the frame foundation of that life, and a flooding overtook my mind, and our escape was necessary.

and now, in this new house of love, I pace the hardwood floors and attend to another kind of waiting. 

without you, absence haunts me, a still specter above my doorframe hawkishly whispering and filling otherwise silent moments. I go about the paces of a day and yes, there is some solace in the business of preparing for your return. how tender to halt a heart and keep it encased in a sort of kept box, patiently thumping a tattoo calling the troops home. these days are a kaleidoscope of magnificence: my belly hangs low and heavy as a raindrop pulling at the leaves, and I can feel the edges of my hips curling back to withstand the spreading life. I step over wooden trains and bejeweled tiaras and discarded socks, navigating the treacherous path with the familiarity of motherhood's nighttime patrols. I sip the lukewarm tea, still sweet from honey settled at the bottom of a cup he brought back from his last trip to the city. and I measure the grams of hope which have stacked along the counters of drab and dingy starter homes in the journey to today's shared space. 

I suppose there will always be a coating of melancholy about my heart, the cracks of heartache now stitched with gold plated yarn. and perhaps I won't pass a day without wondering what might have been, and yet it's certain I'll never know a night of desiring anything other than what is. and so, between the hour your joined hands tiptoed through the door until this orange-scented moment of your return, I let the light play its tricks as the sun sets around our embrace.