on dreams of longing

and i think i would sit with you here, and maybe words would fail, like they do in most occasions. maybe you will understand the silence anyway, the things we say and the things we don’t while our cups sit there waiting to be held, you start telling me about your day. i listen in patience, awe and admiration, a story of bravery and magic, i think about all the roles you have to play during the day, the consoling mother, the grieving little brother, the worried father trying to make ends meet and i listen. i see you slowly slip, minute by minute, letting go of the facade you put on display for the day, i see you slip into the kind soul, into the child who cries when he sees someone in pain, who gives others comfort before he thinks of himself, the soul i met on the first day, i see you slowly find your way into my arms, trying to hold onto something, while i find myself whispering to you that im here, and i am proud of you, for all that you did and couldn’t. you hug me tighter. i bring those tired hands in mine, they are warm, they are not unfamiliar, hands that have seen more, you dont resist, you hold them tighter, i let you and we sit like that for ages, time becomes immaterial, my hand in yours, your head in mine, and we forget the cups, and how the sun is almost gone and how the light of the moon is all that’s there for me to see you and you me, how its tuesday, or march, or how the cat’s meowing in the distance calling for your attention, how the earth is still revolving and climate change is still a thing and there’s dishes to be done and dinner to be made for the night. all we know is that you and I are here, and there’s nothing else that matters.