I can’t tell you what time I woke,
but it was dark and reality was fuzzy.
I had just been somewhere else
when my eyes cracked and the dream cracked with it.
You’re never far
because we refuse to disagree
on the value of a top sheet.
One reach away
and nothing between us.
But tonight was for time travel.
I wanted to give you at least ten kisses
gently on the lips
while you slept,
a maddening and overwhelming desire
to experience that tenderness.
And for whatever reason
that night in the house we built,
I’d never been more nervous to try.
Butterflied, giddy,
as though you might turn me down,
as though ten years had not stolen
the youth from our romance.
It came as no surprise
that I didn’t kiss you,
that the nerves overcame me
just as they had those years ago.
But now I’m running backward,
delighted not to kiss you,
delighted by my failure,
delighted to feel what is still there between us,
thicker than a top sheet,
what time has failed to erode
and will fail still forever.
