The Little Humilities of Love
After they kiss goodnight, she waits for him
to turn off the light before she tapes her lips,
a stamp-sized strip to seal the sagging mouth of sleep,
quell the dead-jaw snore, the startled wake, choking.
Good night, Love, good morning.
His face thinner without teeth soaking on the sink,
he kisses her—that vulnerability reaching further
into her than any word—adhesive residue still
on morning lips he gently insists he doesn’t notice.
