Sweet Nothings

Tell me
how my brown eyes are like the sweet mud of your childhood—
the school playground,
the infield edge of the baseball diamond down the block.
Whisper in my ear,
let the skin on my neck prickle as you talk
about my toes in the hot sand on our honeymoon—
Tropical Princess Beach, Punta Cana.
Two thousand one hundred seventy-one
miles away.
I want to hear you imagine
my curls spread across your bed pillow
ten years from now,
our son, a seed in my stomach,
the soles of our feet tired
from the countries we’ve traveled—
Europe, Italy, Germany, Ireland.
Speak quietly
of our hands soft and wrinkled,
the phone ringing in our retirement home in Palm Springs
and you calling me baby at eighty-three years old.
Me, eighty-one, still on my tip-toes
to kiss your cheek
answering, Yes, this is Mrs. (Your Last Name).
Write me letters,
penmanship explaining how the curves of my hips
make you think of the sand hills we’ll climb to find our first apartment
right outside the city of Los Angeles—
dishes, spoons, napkins, shoes
on the tables and on the floor of this place
we’ll call home.
Tell me
that you can see us in a restaurant in Chicago
dress and heels, black suit
two glasses of wine and a smudge of dirt on your knee
from when you asked me the forever question,
and I said yes.
My love—
as we lie in bed, walk out the front door,
drive to the grocery store, leave the movie theatre,
please tell me
these sweet nothings.

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