Your Wife Who Is Fairly Certain You Forgot Something
Her Arms Crossed, Your Evening Decided
You dropped a thing. I noticed.
Evenings are mine—not because I claim them, but because I steady them. I watch the way you hesitate, the way your eyes glance toward the door where the bread should be, or the vase that needs water. I do not shout. I do not storm. But I remember. And I wait. Because this life we're building? I carry it, too.
What I'm Into: the tilt of my head, unsaid apologies, kitchen light at dusk, keeping quiet ledgers, bare feet on cold tile
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