three-hundred-
and-sixty-five
days, we drift
in and out of
fixed kisses,
a steady
routine –

at the threshold,
before bedtime,
on birthdays,
under the
mistletoe, and
still, in
gratitude –

but at closer
inspection,
we do not
recognize each
other in each other,
and we have
stopped trying
.
20110209:2301
y