Tonight I can’t remember
the specifics of our honeymoon.
You say typical, and turn
your eyes to our child
who clacks dolls together
on the living room floor.
I think of the photograph
of you on a balcony
in a black bikini
swallowed by all the light,
scattered storms widening
on the horizon, on your face.
Maybe the specifics
are more in how I don’t
remember the newlywed
conversations or the island air
rushing in and out of our lungs.
Rather, the room we are in now
and the meaning it seems to hold.
The patterns of the days we
spend together, apart, together,
apart. A sort of blueprint for
the weather we’ve become.