What we have been doing here

It’s that I can see my breath in the house in the mornings.

It’s the sink clogged slow by dog hair, my hair, the innards of a stuffed rat.

It’s finding the lost sock under the bed, weeks later.

It’s eating three eggs, half-cooked, for dinner because there’s nothing else.

It’s gin, and so much of it, but never enough.

It’s sleeping in on Sunday mornings, it’s your chin on my cheek.

It’s unopened mail rising like the leaning tower outside of the door.

It’s talking on the porch in the middle of the night.

It’s him, and him, and him, and you.

It’s ‘Virginia gone quite mad while shaving her armpits.’

It’s running, and pushing, and hating but mostly kidding.

It’s what we have been doing here.