I want to wake up with you

next to me

on a cold, Seattle Sunday.

I’ll wake up first, of course:

you’ve always been

the one to sleep in.

And we’ll walk the farmer’s market

with our rain jackets pulled over

our fleece beanies.

My hand in yours,

like a metaphor of something

larger than the two of us,

holding the two of us.

If you and I ever

become we.

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