There will be nights where you feel like your
love is a crumbling artifact, a memento
of time before children, before bills, before the rent
was so high that it rivaled your anxieties about money;
they will come when your husband falls asleep on the couch
and does not come to bed. They will come when you
wake up at 2 a.m. from an unspeakable nightmare,
inconsolable, and his side of the bed is cold. In these moments,
the cool side of the pillow will feel like you are sleeping
in a glacier and your tears are hot saltwater springs.
Because of this, the bed is full of steam
but it is not a romance.
There will be nights where you are afraid
that maybe you made a mistake, these nights will come
mostly after he’s been drinking away his bad mood
and you have been sharpening your tongue;
when you are both more worried about winning
the argument than about why you fell in love.
It is these nights when you are afraid to speak,
when the house is full of gasoline tension
and your words are unpredictable live wires,
waiting to ignite, waiting for everything
These nights will come,
and they will go, and you will sigh into
your husband’s shoulder when you’ve stopped
sweating out the stress. In these moments,
you will remember why you married him,
you will remember that he is the rock
that you rely on, a bit of land
when you are constantly lost at sea.
Please remind him that you love him,
that the waters are turbulent in the storm
but the ocean is still whole.
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