I will remember your small room, the feel of you, the light in the window, your records, your books, our morning coffee, our noons, our nights, our bodies spilled together, sleeping, the tiny flowing currents, immediate and forever. Your leg, my leg, your arm, my arm, your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.
She is not ‘my girl.’ She belongs to herself. And I am blessed, for with all her freedom, she still comes back to me, moment-to-moment, day-by-day, night-by-night. How much more blessed can I be?