it takes a slow sunny april to love somebody, like an acquaintance, like a lover, or your father. thermometers under armpits at 5 AM as you whisper a prayer of “please be 37 degrees.”
i wish the deeper we loved the less likely we were going to get hurt. but look at us, making meals and making love, despite all these possibilities of getting our hearts ripped out.
peeling oranges is not enough, we slice apples too and crush paracetamol.
and we still dance with them, even as they recline in an old leather wheelchair, and no longer know how to say our names.
and we'll do it all over again, as if every day is a slow sunny april to love somebody, like an acquaintance, like a lover, like your father. well, what if it is?