It’s gotten easy. In the dark I’ve been held calm, kissed quiet. I try on poetry but it bags at the hips, slouches in the shoulders. I never expected any less. Day by day he strips the adjectives away, exposes the skin — smooths every plain, touches every expanse. When I write it’s about flowers, about light and love. There are no sharp pieces. I do not cut or bleed. I breathe relief — it’s finally easy.