Pocket

I don't think I have ever

felt as good as I did 

against you this morning.

I woke up tired.

And despite our weekly routine

I kept my expectations low

so I wouldn't be disappointed

when the circumstances didn't play

in our favor,

when after we'd chatted and joked

and stolen glances 

trying to freeze time with our eyes,

we'd give up and cast our usual 

goodbyes

quick like a bandage

with a wink and a smile

and a practiced

simmering

reluctant 

patience.

But they did.

Easily.

Everything this morning fit together 

like the most perfect puzzle.

And when I finally sunk into your arms,

finally exhaled for the first time all week,

I woke up in a place

with no thoughts.

And like my childhood home,

which I could still walk through blind,

I read the familiar landscape of your

body with my hands,

let them guide me through the perfect

contours of your back.

And when we were through

you gave me a gift.

It was something anyone else would have thrown away

but you had been keeping for a month

because it reminded you of us.

You're always in my pocket

you said.

And when I thought about that later today

I laughed and then unexpectedly

cried.

If it were anyone else,

this would not have been a poem.

But it was you--

endearingly guarded

emotionally restrained

invulnerable--

pulling this gift from your pocket

that had been there all along.

If I had had the mind, I might have said that

you are always with me too.
Instead we said our usual
goodbyes
quick like a bandage.