What I am looking forward to
Boxes. Too many boxes, and not enough
time to arrange the furniture.
Arguments over the best place to put
the crockery, the television, my books,
your hands. Pressing my clothes, smoothing wrinkles
from your shirts with a second-hand iron.
Dishes, piled in the sink and waiting
for you. My lips, formed around words that are
sharp, like fingernails. Your eyes,
bright behind glasses and the pain of scratch wounds.
Choking on a mouthful of pride,
unable to swallow. Delayed forgiveness.
You, sulking. You, refusing to speak. You,
tousle-haired and bleary-eyed in the morning, still
sulking. Slamming the bedroom door and crying. Undressing
onions and crying. Leaning against your chest and
crying. Damp eyelashes and blotchy skin. Air warmed by
apologies, vibrating and humming. Shivering
gooseflesh where your palms cross my body.
Tying knots with fingers, tangles with limbs.
Falling asleep in your arms, the ring on
my left hand warmed by your skin.