I am lucky
To have a love
Who isn’t my missing piece,
But knows where I leave things behind.
I call him at work to ask
where’s my favorite hoodie?
My keys?
He has unlocked those from my car ten times this year.
He gets frustrated after my therapy sessions
when I share my new insight,
“I’ve said those exact words.”
He remembers to buy me tampons
even when I’m the one bleeding
and manage to forget.
He tucks me in before going to work
and wakes me up when coming home.
Always with love.
He knows how to wrestle me from nightmares,
and calm my racing heart.
Knows how I take my coffee
and when to expect the crashing.
And the crashing has become familiar
enough to predict.
I have never let myself be vulnerable
enough for predictability.
But to be vulnerable is to be known.
Open and unafraid,
where this love can almost protect us
from the wars
we too often forget we’re fighting.
I am lucky he locks the door behind me.
Leaves out an extra towel.
Leaves the hallway light on.
He makes a little bit more
everytime he cooks,
because I always ask to share.
And now, I always share myself too.
He reminds me,
when I forget again
That I don’t have to try so hard to forget.
There is so much worth remembering now.