Not ready
One is not yet ready for a new name. A new pulse between the pillows. For the joy in reunion or the regret over its absence.
Not ready to show, once again, where to find the tea, the bread, the eggs.
Not ready to approach, to test, to perhaps grow accustomed to this new face. To find it in the dark, to seek it, to see it behind closed lids. The new laughter, the unfamiliar smile. The quiet wonder. The fear of it all. Learning to read a new face.
Not yet ready for different fibers on different sweaters and for those places one shouldn’t touch—or should, exactly there. Not the navel, but the nape.
Not ready for the play of muscles and sinews, skin on skin.
Not ready to listen for breaths in the night and to inhale another’s sweat, a sweat loved. Not ready for the endless cascade of firsts. Going to bed, waking up, breakfasting, I love you.
Not ready to seek or find something new, only to lose it again.
Not ready.