Without my credit card or driver’s license in my pocket,
without car or house keys, without a car or house,
we become extra skins for one another. The emptiness of pockets
becomes a kind of fullness. We argue about directions. We argue
because it feels like the kind of normal we want to play at.
You tell me how pretty the rain of ash makes my face —
how slender I’m becoming. I tell you that you were right all along
about not having children. We have no choices now, but
facing the end with you would be mine. Suddenly, resumes and
day planners and folded directions to a near-forgotten wedding
disappear. The world we tried to please has given up on us
and we can’t help ourselves but feel relieved.
