To Remember By Love Language
I keep waking up in your house, late at night in December
how oddly we behaved, your laughter a hush in the hall paired
with my reluctance to enter through the front door. “come here”
you said. I saw the kitchen I hadn't seen since our first time
it wasn't as I remembered it, but is it ever? meeting in the yellow glow
of your room, even in its dullness it touched the empty pit of the living room,
which contained almost nothing but a christmas tree. You drew me out of hiding
towards its darkness. we let the deepness envelope us, as the seeping light
was too soft to reach the couch we sat at as we never had. when I wake here
I remember how it felt to do the things we’d never do. And I might have
otherwise saw each night with 1,000 other lives of ours but instead
on the couch there was only one: Where you and I were no other way
a spot of my own on the couch, its perfect indent, your arm and side
a familiar sensation, and this place knowing us in a way we never
understood each other. why did you fumble through the dark
to plug in the christmas lights for us? Glazed over eyes watching like...
When I go back there I know I could mistakenly, if I wanted,
believe we decorated it together. but without it still, each year
when I remember December, I remember everything being ours.