A sigh of contentment;
you are all I need
after a long day,
a hard week,
a dulling month,
an exhausting year
(a torrential lifetime).
It is hard;
things are hard
(the bed is soft),
but we will rise above,
s l o w l y,
even as we slog here
under the mud (along the bottom of the ocean,
with the peaches and the crabs).
It may get harder yet,
for all we know.
It may grow deeper, still —
there may be further yet to fall.
We never know these things,
but all the same,
your hand in my hand
(I don’t need both
for the road),
and we will enjoy
the little things that matter,
and let slide off
even the bigger ones that don’t.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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