It’s strange how,
when we lie in bed
on a Saturday evening,
watching people dance,
I can see you in a suit,
moving to a song we’ve already chosen,
with my hands in yours.
It’s strange how,
when you knock on the door,
I imagine you carrying me through it;
a novelty, yes, but an idea that made us laugh.
It’s strange how,
when we share a meal,
I imagine looking out at fifty other faces,
hungry and here, for us.
It’s strange how,
each time you kiss me,
I imagine we’ve just been given permission;
the cue to sign-off.
It’s strange how,
when I call you ‘Baby’,
it seems to begin, in my head,
with a ‘H’ that’s saved only for forever.
It’s strange, all of this.
And perfect.
Scott McGinn 