We pluck some of the seedling plants to make room for the others, and I tell you my hair has gotten too long.
You disagree.
You tell me that the book without words made you cry, and I tell you, “Me, too,” but without saying anything aloud.
Your hand rests on my thigh just above my knee as I drive. Your touch reminds me of sunshine.
I think I can smell the pulse under your skin. You show me how it’s right beneath the surface.
I make you promise to dance with me in the kitchen.
So many disparate truths build a life and a happy one at that.
I don’t know where to go from here.
You say, “Forward, of course.”
The Yellow Brick Ave 