Look How Far We've Come

She tells me she's hurt herself
so no one else can
ever since she was little.
She has a way of shrugging off compliments
like the black silk nightgown she looks
so vulnerable in.

We meet at our apartment after work,
six o'clock, darker
that when we last saw each other.
We don't think of meals;
we think of conveniences.
We think of how many more hours
before we must surrender.

I wrap myself in our sheet and comforter
and feel the weight of her lying next to me.
I dream that she cries while I sleep.
I dream that we live in different places.
I dream that I am falling around a black hole.

We used to talk about our dreams,
the ones we fabricated in dorm rooms
and long car rides.
We tell ourselves we're lost; we say,
we're just kids, but don't worry,
we'll get there someday.

Just look
how far we've come.