Algae slimed fish bowl,
drawers empty of clothes,
you with your nose running and
a hot hole in your seven-year-old soul.
Me, with my twenty-five-year old mind
and not an apron to my name.
I vacuumed dead flies from the windowsills and
scheduled skating rinks for birthdays.
We edged around each other like
gentle boxers afraid to punch,
but still needing the purse.
It all hurt, but I tried.
Late nights listening for gravel crunching,
measuring your face’s twitching for trouble.
Loving, but without a real claim or permission.
Victory comes in the form of your
lanky body lazing on my couch.
Your voice speaking everyday things to my ear.
We are still a we.
Look what we made;
we made family.