day 18: worn

I’m a little beat today. I don’t feel in the best of health: strange because for the past three years I felt the very definition. This funk has been going on since Christmas though, and it’s finally catching up to me. Here’s hoping the turnaround comes soon!

In other news, bean is teething, and A brought me flowers. Life is good.

The Unquarried Blue of Those Depths Is All But Blinding

BY ASHLEY ANNA MCHUGH
for John Fogleman

There are some things we just don’t talk about—
Not even in the morning, when we’re waking,
When your calloused fingers tentatively walk
The slope of my waist:
How love’s a rust-worn boat,
Abandoned at the dock—and who could doubt
Waves lick their teeth, eyeing its hull? We’re taking
Our wreckage as a promise, so we don’t talk.
We wet the tired oars, tide drawing us out.

We understand there’s nothing to be said.
Both of us know the dangers of this sea,
Warned by the tide-worn driftwood of our pasts—.
But we’ve already strayed from the harbor. We thread
A slow wake though the water—then silently,
We start to row, and will for as long as this lasts.

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