I know, I know;

I always leave too soon,

I never stay my complete

welcome. But please, for now

drive my car through the ridges

of your childhood.

In the lull of traffic, I sink

into your sweet ordinary.
Cram your CDs into my glovebox

and show me your old high school

your primary school torn down,

your favourite playground

next to your uncle’s old house.

Take me around the lake again

with the pastel cabins taking the brunt

of the temperamental water;

a sleet of gold in rush hour

and choppy in the quiet 11am.
I used to believe love is so short

but I feel endless with you.

Drifting through the rich neighbourhoods

with the hideous modern houses,

I say, “Get rich and marry me.”

The sun pulses cold on the skyline.

You laugh because it’s a joke.

You say, “Of course,

but I need a better job first,”

and we keep pretending that it’s a joke.
You hog the bed and the blankets

and you push me cold against the wall

then, awake, pull me close again,

“You’re falling off the bed.”

You let me sleep through the afternoon,

through two movies and one game,

and you come back smelling like dinner,

checking in, speaking low.

In your bed sleep is deep and crushing,

a child’s slumber, untethered.
I’m trying to say it all,

but it’s bigger than my head—

I heard that in a song once

and now you push me

into the meaning.

I am so afraid to need you,

yet it is the easiest thing

I have ever done.