The horizon filled steadily with smoke, and I put my arm around your shoulders and walked into the afternoon with something akin to joy. You, my best running mate. My most diabolical partner. Nobody. Anywhere. Stands a chance against us.

Seven years.

You tell the most terrible puns.

Leave laundry wet in the dryer for days on end.

Drop shoes in walkways.

Leave tap water running.

Seven years

of risotto and coffee.

Of riotous dance music.

Of love letters written on paper that thins and thins and thins

but never frays.

Letters left in pockets and purses

and books to be visited often.

Seven years,

the entire life of your grandchild:

her intensity a long, beautiful echo of yours.

Seven years and I cannot shake you.

I am constantly revising my path toward you.

To meet you again and again

here at the altar.

To marry you

more gently each time,

like the osprey over the river.


Resolving more perfectly into this band on my finger.

I am yours

I am yours

I am yours

In richness

and laughter.

In temper

and failure.

In a landscape on fire,

I am yours

I am yours

I am yours

I am yours.

Worn, O my heart,

with love.

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