You Are Easy To Love

We are very careful. About what we eat, some. Nothing that spills or with crumbs, nothing that will make a mess of the bed where we live since I turned and said we shouldn’t leave. It was the best way. 

To be careful about ourselves we move enough to keep the currents running. Or would, until it was instead a metric of when there were doubts: how the movements were greater when we fought, to be sure we wouldn’t be humiliated if we chose to stand and leave. Terribly, when we argued about the garden, how it wasn’t practical, but the thought of our bed in tall grass was there already and we fought for days and stretched for hours, threatening. 

Though it didn’t matter. I’ll dream of growing trees, splitting the ceiling, and the noise is so loud I am awake and know that this is where my blood will stop flowing. And, since, we only move together, shaping spaces into the mattress that map this kind of sedentary love. 

This is the easiest thing, think, and that I am swelling, or swallowed. 

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