You’ll get no happy ending, and neither will I.
Bad drivers, bad haircuts, bad milk,
our lopsided loves, blown chances,
being too much and not enough.
All the hurts of age (my knees) (your hands),
the suicides of friends.
Whatever ever after you will get
is not one happiness, monolithic,
but many small ones:
a baby learning to laugh.
Bread baked by your mother,
and later, her recipe,
a sacrament.
A sudden mouthful
of kisses in the elevator,
or one tender kiss in the morning
as you’re shaking off a dream,
one that turns into your husband’s eyes,
soft with love in a rough face.
A friend’s voice.
Music.
This.
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