Last night, after you'd returned from work, you dropped your backpack in the middle of my writing space. You pulled off your shoes, and began to retell your day with a loudness I'm still not used to. The ideas and half-formed lines (from an afternoon of silence) fell like glass marbles.
Later, on the computer, you typed a new poem. I listen to the speed of the tapping and know you've found that zone which so often seems to evade me. And, for a moment, I am jealous and resenting...
This morning, I eased myself away from your warmth, quietly made black coffee and settled back into thinking. At seven your alarm began to cycle through those sounds (specifically chosen to force you from our bed). By half past, you've pressed the snooze button six times and I'm forced to leave my thoughts behind to wake you.
Our differences sometimes cause us to clash, but our similarities always bring resolution. For every time you have made a picnic, coaxed me into the car and taken me to a place that allows my mind to breath - I thank you.
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