Couuntin’ the Days

Is it weird that I’m counting down the days, not on finger tips or the little hand clock ticks, but on the absence of space in one sided conversations that begin with: “Hey I gotta tell you about…” but you’re not around.  And so I keep them to myself.  And I put them on my shelf organized and categorized in jars and binders labeled “For Min, don’t forget”.  

I never thought to hold my breath’ while the air was running out.  Because I’m not scared of drowning, or going without.  I know that next breath in’ will taste all the sweeter when my lips meet the surface of your water and the air is mine again.  I will breathe you in.  And I will exhale stories by the gallon, and footfalls by the mile, and our paths will twist closed like our interwoven fingers, which have become inseparable knots.  And I will watch’ for the smile that begins at the corners of your eyes and ends with your head upon my chest.  

And I will breathe easy.  And I will count freely.  In the measured beats of our two hearts as one.  

It goes
One to, 
    One two.  
        One too.  
              Me you.  
                    Me you.  
   Pork belly.  

                  Ice cream.  

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