until we don’t make sense…

If I’m going out, I stop to listen to the radio if it’s playing that one song. The one I listen to every day since his transfer after love filled this apartment for two years – staying just long enough to leave behind a love song and a one-way plane ticket to Alberta where he waits in a city foreign to us. I gather boxes – folding dreams of babies into the remaining bed sheets. He whispers across a hemisphere at night. I whisper, too, until we don’t make sense we’re so tired. After I love you, he tells me to come home soon. After I love you, I ask him to describe home to me again.

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