192: Joy Map
If I was to draw a map of my joy
like dots in a constellations
or pegs in a light bright
or all those google map pins
there would be a stop for you
and the way you stand up when you really get to laughing
and a stop dancing in the kitchen in our socks
and a stop for headphones in, music loud, walking through
New York City streets
feeling like a lioness because we’re all just so alive.
There would be a dot for wool socks
and cups of tea
and that first moment when we all hop on zoom and squeal
because we’ve missed each other’s faces.
There would be a dot for summers by the water
and picnics and the feeling of the sun trying to kiss freckles into my skin.
There would be a dot for the older woman by the bus stop
who strikes up a conversation
to tell me about her favorite bus driver Jerry,
“He really is just so wonderful.”
There would be a dot for candles on a cake
and my mom’s sweet potato casserole,
handwritten cards, friends who send you songs and say
“This made me think of you,”
snapchat memories that bring back
the people I love
and the feeling I get
when I roll over
in the middle of the night
and see you there.
That’s the last stop on the map.
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Every night we sit on the couch. Your arm around my shoulders, my knees pulled towards my chest. We eat dinner. We talk about the day. The dog sleeps, belly up nestled on top of our sock feet. And eve