on the day we pretend is our anniversary,
my belly is baby-ready
but your nerves are not.
still, you play the good husband.
me, the good wife
and we map out each other in portions,
drawing lines of scrimmage with whispers
and scattered fingertips.
later, i pluck a stray eyelash
from your cheek and wish we would
grow into each other
like the trees outside our window,
clouded by leaves and fresh pollen.
i wish love was only about feelings instead
of choices, so not choosing
it felt less like failing.
i imagine your wish could be different
we kiss until sleep is more appealing
than the warmth of our mouths.
when morning comes,
we are still us.
Kianna Greene is an Atlanta-raised poet, essayist, and recent graduate of the University of Central Florida. She is currently living in Orlando, FL. Her work has been featured in The Cypress Dome. She can be reached at email@example.com.