Nothing sacred.
Nothing to prove.
Just the simple miracle
of being here.
I lie awake, nowhere else to be,
while he sleeps with the confidence
of someone who knows
he's not alone in the world.
Love, I have learned,
does not arrive with trumpets.
Sometimes it shows up
barefoot in my kitchen,
morning coffee in my favorite blue cup,
the way his hand finds mine
even after letting go.
I watch him sleep,
whisper,
Are you ever afraid of tomorrow?
Knowing it will come anyway.
And the next day.
It's quiet.
Nothing is happening.
Everything is happening.
The last three lines are a poem by itself, or a poem within a poem...
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