You turn and look at me
maybe for the first time
or the tenth, or the thousandth time
only to see what you knew you’d find –
a man looking back, whisker’d, aging,
eyes a little dimmer but still aimed at you.
I smell your morning breath
and think to myself how perfect,
how expected, how perfectly normal
and good and welcome.
The first kiss is always best
in its unnoticed awkwardness –
maybe because of it.
The shear warmth of your body
reminds me of our shared need
for presence and company and comfort
unattainable in the strivings of our days
but remembered in uncounted moments
spread over time and times and time again.
Our sagging bodies remind us of life
lived under common skies, the unexpected usual –
and it settles into me
in a kind of daylight reverie to what is.
We make love or something like it,
and vaguely remember the youthful bump
and grind of the easier, less calendared moments,
and scoff at our glorious, happy failure.
The pieces were better, stronger, truer
but more anxious and photoshop expectant.
But this is better in all its effort
and planning, and untelevised humanity.
These moments are charged
more insistently by words boring
and daily and dull, but real
and good and dressed in old pajamas.
It is the harmony of music left to
routine and chance and time, the choir of songs
sung to the easy marching hours
and resting nights full of the brighter
skies of want made less
in the beautiful tedium of the living days.