I’m not immune to you,
to the melody of your shoes on my bedroom floor,
couldn’t be more certain that I’m cynical and vulnerable all at once,
but I’m just, sort of, going with it,
going wherever your rolled eyes and exasperated sighs command.
I fall and rise,
resisting sleep, then being ravished by it,
the same record on repeat,
a comforting crackle in the background,
as I imagine us dancing (which we have never done, despite it being my greatest fantasy),
Bing Crosby beckons us, welcoming us to his dreams,
and your hand is a warm, weighted anchor to this world, which once seemed so dark and disappointing, and now, shines with the brightness of your eyes.
I don’t dig graves anymore as I sleep,
I tread gracefully in my garden,
planting seeds and practicing patience.
Look at what you’ve done to me.