She told me not to worry;

it was something that happened only

when she laid down.

I contemplated all the times

she laid with me

in that bed with red sheets

and wondered if that was why.

Each number of times I

remembered brought a tear to each cheek.

There’s a way to count the times,

but I could only sniffle my wet nose

when she told me her hear skips a beat.

“Mine does, too,” I told her,

“every time I see you.  Remember

that first time we said

‘I love you?’ My stomach

billowed butterflies as we stood

behind the courthouse

at twilight—the worst time

for butterflies—and you later

told me how you’d say

‘no’ to a courthouse wedding;

that you’re a winter, and twilight

often reveals the best in people.”

I spoke burnt ashes

as my memory broke into splinters

and checked itself into Hotel Relapse

to cherished moments:

my breath caught as I remembered

the ivory water tower that gleamed

ruby red as we sat on $20

lawn chairs sipping micro brews,

analyzing our sentient existence

over golden hills of barley.

I began to cry again

with the repeated notion of it all

being for naught—even with

a courthouse wedding,

how one day, one of us would lay

with the other and lovingly wake

to brew her cup of coffee

and find one of us unable

to wake up again.

She told me not to worry;

it was something that happened

only when she laid down

beside me, that her arrhythmia

was not serious and that

she would be going

to a cardiologist.

That thought led to many,

many more splinters

as I flashed forward

with the intent of being well

when she goes to lay on that table

and realizes her chest is open

for heart surgery

and I’ll be waiting in the next room

to hear the devastation

that was laid to the chest

I once caressed with

feathered touches of open love.

I asked her if she was sure?

Was it serious?

Did she set an appointment?

Had she called her parents?

What did they say?

Had she called her insurance?

What did THEY say?

When will she be going?

When will she be home?

Will there be tests?

Will there be surgery?

Can I get anything?

Can I hold her?

Can I kiss her?

Can she understand

what I would feel

after realizing all those

missed opportunities to say,

“I love you?!”

And she put her tiny hand

on my lips.

She removed it.

And she kissed me.

And she told me not to worry,

that her heart skips a beat

every time she sees me, too.