the problem.

the problem is how easy I can picture us in my head;
you walking around barefoot, wearing panties and
an old shirt too big for your body
(yet too small to hold every thing you are inside)

your laugh echoing all over
your small apartment that could soon
be ours

me, tangled in sheets
that would soon cover your body;
move around your body;
again
and again

both of us hidden inside
— each other —
smiling and staring through eyes
forever stuck on the day we first met.