corona
in sixty-three days the people will see you
fold me tenderly into your arms as your wife,
and they will know that something perfect
has happened. but they will not know
that you sing me to sleep with love songs
and hum over the parts you forget
because it's your voice that comforts me
and not the words
that you squeeze my hand before I know I'm upset
because you watch my heart like a rare bird
that you cover my eyes when we pass road kill
because you hurt when I do
that your heart is as sweet as fresh apples
that your arms are as safe as a dream,
where nothing can hurt me
because nothing is real
that your words are as soothing as healing rain on
a broken and thirsty field
that you have no idea how much I need you
to fill the cracks
that we drove for miles so you could show me
a porch swing that is just like the one we will share
when we're eighty and eighty-six
and we've finally realized that we're not just sitting here
holding hands because we have nothing better to do:
it's because there is nothing better to do.