Crunch and crumble, crunch and crumble. Bits of crisp garlic bread that we cooked find a home on his chest. They wouldnt nestle in the folds of his shirt if he didnt wear clothes that would only fit a man four times his size. I tell him so, and he smiles. Its a familiar thing. He sits up to kiss my cheek. Tumble and fall, little crumbs. Move along. I brush off the ones that cling to him, reshaping waves of fabric. I hear the thump thump thump of his heart as I let him fold me into him. He sings with the radio, and his voice slides past all the notes. |
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April 19
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