a year.
Summer.
I stare up at the ceiling and he
reads his book. I’m not sad. He asks me what I’m thinking and I shush him. I’m
trying to figure out the world. He laughs and puts his hand on my leg.
He loves me.
We lie outside with candles and
dusk not wanting to quit. The hammock swings and the mosquitoes bite my skin.
Sand is in my hair. Salt in his eyebrows. I kiss his face.
I love him.
Autumn.
Sometimes I want to make love.
Sometimes I don’t. He always wants to. I don’t want to be one of those couples.
Winter.
I drive. We haven’t talked most of
the day. I can’t stand the silence. The tension. Him. I want it to be over. We
come to the top of the bridge as the sun sets. I put the visor down. He hands
me his sunglasses.
He loves me.
He’s away. I boil some tea and it
spills. I use his mug but I only made enough to fill it halfway.
I love him.
Spring.
I’m demanding. He shakes his head.
I tell him it must be difficult to love me. He says loving me is easy, it’s
getting along with me that’s difficult. This makes me laugh so much.
I’m scared.
(c) Samantha Florence, 2014.
