Lingering at Point Easy

We are two people. Loving each other in two different ways. In between distinct points in time.

At Linger on your birthday,

the storm had just emptied itself.

Windows flung wide,

a rainbow leaned into our table

like it wanted to join us.

Your eyes—

baby-blue bullseyes,

the color of the few safe moments

I can still remember from childhood.

You laughed then,

unguarded,

and kissed me into quiet.

For an hour, I thought

we could stay there forever,

suspended between storm and calm,

between danger and ease. Lingering.

But I have loved before—

ferocious, seismic love.

Love that cracked the ground open,

tightened around my throat

until I sawed myself free

and rose gasping from the dark.

So later,

at Point Easy,

when I asked you about meaning,

you said:

“You can’t take it with you.”

I wanted you to mean:

fight for it,

seize it,

claim it back.

But you meant:

taste the wine,

laugh when you can,

let the night pass.

Point easy.

And here I stand,

mid-thought,

mid-step,

walking a fallen tree in the forest—

arms out,

balancing between knowing better

and wanting more.

We can’t stay here forever.

The air cools

when the sun goes down.