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If we sat in bars, grimaced at bad service, napkins on our quivering laps. If we rushed into and out of traffic, rainstorms, apartments, appointments. If no one looked or noticed, cared if we ever unpacked the boxes, hung up pictures on the walls, rode elevators up and down just because. If we played pianos badly, sung off key, went to church half drunk, stumbled home with souvenirs, bled a little to make it more real. If we started over, met under mistletoe, wrote love letters, spent nights on the phone across oceans. If we sold old things and traded our shoes for something bare and new. If we sat on stairs looking at stars, playing broken-stringed, broken-necked guitars. Read long books, threw ringed rocks in rivers, stole sand and scattered it on floorboards of strangers cars. Took baths in big claw-foot tubs, told lies, listened for coyotes. Painted portraits of the people we once were or might be still becoming. If we made it look easy, ate cake at midnight, wrote words on skin, failed to notice important things, sometimes went hungry, had nightmares. If we laughed when the electricity went out, locked our keys in the car, baked pies, slept back to back, tore old clothes into tourniquets. If it took years to get it right, would it be called love?
