with you

"home is where you feel safest," he reads,

i am silent with baby and he stares and i look and see he's waiting









"where do you feel safest?" he asks







and i remember, on a hill decade-long-gone, him carving initials rough into bark, bowing low, begging marriage and me touching the place where his eyes scratched lines




and i remember today, him asking to play frisbee and cards and to go on a bike ride and kissing my body's secrets



and us taking boy to nuzzle hand with cow and the way the sky seemed to hold its tears until we'd stepped inside

and him slicing onion, eyes raining, because i like it on my pizza


"with you," i bare-whisper

"i feel safest. with you.

you. are. home."




joining up with one stop poetry today.

join me tomorrow for imperfect prose on thursdays.