Hope evades your gaze;
a hope I can’t put a price on;
if the forecasted snow arrives
before you do, the radio
will sing songs, setting
our troubles in the settling
breeze ushering in the new year,
falling back into my memory
of us, standing Christmas morning,
hand in hand, before your family,
between opening presents,
announcing we’ve made it official.
I tossed the caution of taking it slow
into a bittersweet tide of a seemingly
solitude, space, and time.
Your friends chat behind our backs
like a phone on speaker — someone
forgot to hit mute, projecting their insecurities.
We laugh thunderously at their jealousy.
And as happy as we are, they wish
half they could be.
(© 2022 AC)