living for the weekend

We used to love each other with so much hope:

the vision of our cedar cabin, shingles weathered just so, and the ocean air fresh-- off Chillmark or an abandoned spit on Isle au Haute.

It pulled us forward,

just fast enough so that we couldn't see the daily discord:

dirty dishes in the sink, always wet clothes in the dryer, dust,

how lonely I felt while I swept. 

You needed me to slow down, to hold me with your steady hands.

I needed you to step up, in a quiet way, perhaps the groceries, or replacing the eggs.

I swear we wanted the same thing. It seemed silly to slow down or speak up...

These days, the best part about crying is the taste of the salt, like the sea, and the full body heaves that rock me like a swell. 

I can still feel the beams of our cabin, unsanded, raw, elementary; propped up between the caverns of our hearts; wanting so badly for it to appear.