Speak to me in fragments —
of joys revisited with a repeated phrase,
and memories distilled into a single word.
“Which story is this?” you ask.
“Number 213,” is my ready reply—
and you smile instantly, a mirror of my own.
How long ago did I begin to mark
the tales of our shared life,
and count their retelling?
Talk to me in phrases
of familiar moments tenderly summoned —
a private language all our own.
French fry is for your teasing I never let go,
as we text kiss to each other yet again so that
caressing hands and hearts may touch from a distance.
“Tain!” holds all the wonder of parenthood,
while giggles piggyback on Mr. Squirrel’s indecision
and painting in my ball gown — is but a sigh from you.
Whisper to me in code and
nonsensical references of mutual secrets kept,
And I will respond in kind, my love.
For they are endearing touchstones
that illuminate the journey of us,
two lovers fated— and yet 98 is why we stay.
Tarrant Smith 2019