We lie in bed, discussing how tough things are. We rise up, then, to Attack The Day because we came from nothing, and we're still around. It's a special kind of effort, and it's killing us. Everything I say in anger is a version of, "I'm tired." Everything you say in your defence is a version of "be kind." We can't save each other, either. We've tried.
We drink our coffee and check our mail. You are halfway out the door. I am putting on my coat. I remember to remind you about your mum. You remember to wish me good luck with the thing. We forget to see each other for as long as love takes. This is where we're getting it wrong. Tomorrow we'll know something else, something more.
Tomorrow we'll know these were important years. Can't we romance today, in its prime, as we find it? Light the candles in the house, use the good, good plates, gather friends around to dance, let the tale turn? I'm forgetting how to touch you like a new, uncertain thing. I'm losing the confidence of a lover. If only we noticed the fading truth. If only we knew what we could one day lose.
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