Borrowing

You've only just gone to the corner, a brief errand that takes you away from me only for a minute, or ten. I am putting laundry into the washing machine, wiping the counter of crumbs from your endless stream of peanut butter sandwiches and singing something stupid and tuneless.

Your key is in the door and we're sitting down to eat things that are not good for us and watching things that will rot our brains and talking about nothing.

And I am happy.

I want to tell you that I am happy. I want to tell you that for just a moment, everything is so heartbreakingly perfect that misery seems to exist only in theory.

But instead I cry.

Baby, you say, what's the matter?

I'm afraid, I tell you. Afraid that something will happen and you'll be lost to me. Afraid that what could be will be so bleak that my heart will at last break entirely.

You pull me close and my head nestles into the crook of your neck and I know that this is enough. One minute of you, is enough.

For now, what is, is perfect.