A poem
After forty years
I know the curves
and edges of your body
like the worn paths
of my childhood home
Each scar and mark
tells our history
traces of rings and watches
faded but still visible
I remember when this wrinkle
first etched its way in
that grey hair I plucked in jest
now a swath of silver
We’ve shaped each other
with our hands’ pressure and caress
as clinging vines leaving impressions
on an ancient wall
Our edges bump and dent
Circle and cling
Fit together less smoothly than before
Still know no other home
For better or worse
in sickness and health
we’ve settled into each other
moulded more perfectly
