I am tongue tied when we speak
because in my head you are somebody else entirely.
We eat sandwiches in the park and you talk about your parents.
Your mum was raised by the ocean
and skimmed stones in the water.
She's frightened of most things now
because life didn't turn out how she thought it would.
Except for you.
You are her anchor to the good she used to see everywhere.
You are the good that I see.
I write notes on scraps of paper and tuck them into the pockets of your jeans
so you'll find them when I'm somewhere else
and you're missing me.
And when you come home and I am there
I know for sure that it is right
Because it is us.
And I am the good that you see.
So when we speak I forget my words
and make jokes to fill gaps between your questions
because I remember what we are somewhere else
and I want you to know.
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