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the white table

The days are not long. The nights are short. Guitars are hiding in cases, with scraps of paper tucked inside. The pen is full. There is a fresh notebook, with creamy pages. The little white desk is in the middle of the living room, a cascade of receipts and laundry perched on it.

I clean it off, have lunch as it stares back at me. This focal point, this fulcrum where my thoughts become real, this cheap folding table from Ikea. It is familiar, and patient.

with her

I am with her, long after the baby has gone to sleep. There is just the sound of the wind knocking branches against each other and that magnificent smell at the back of her neck. The bright skin of her shoulder glows in the darkness. This is all I really need. The rest falls away, evaporating into the dark sky beyond the windows.

There is the sound of her breath, maybe even her heartbeat or it could be mine. I cannot tell.


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