I can’t bear it so I say I’ll see you soon.
It’s far more comforting than I don’t
know when
or however long this takes
to pass. I ache for our days in the sun:

faint light streaming through curtains
of better days, not days like these, how
we sulk around our homes fearing what
sickness might be carried by wind, what
might become of these uncharted hours.

I yearn for the softness of anything easy.
Sunday mornings, pancake batter, your
thin index finger tracing every low valley
my knuckles form. Pretty privileges: all

of this delight I took for granted. Maybe
I would’ve held onto you a little longer
if only I knew the kind of fear we’d face.

I’ll see you soon.

Measure the time in Sundays. In breakfasts.
In the peaks and mountains my knuckles
make, squeezing your palm, however long
this takes,
to stop the sun from sinking.

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