to the person who breathes the same air as me,
to the person whose feet know the same floor as me,
to the person whose fingers visit the same cabinets
and drawers as me.

to she who opens the refrigerator door,
to she who shares the butter dish with me,
to she who cooks and cleans the pots and pans,
the same as me.

to she who lays beside me in bed each night.
to she who sleeps and wakes and sleeps and wakes
beside me in bed each night.

to the one who hates driving to the hospital in the
late dark of that same night, but who does anyway.

to she who lives on the spiral arms of my compass.

and when night makes a pillow of the sky,
it’s not about solitude, it’s about gratitude.

for she whose dawn caress leans false dreams
to easy rest.

my colors pale without you remembering.
 
 
 

neil reid