It’s eight am again, and Luke stands at the sink, light
stretched thin through the kitchen. I hug him from behind,
and he lets me stay there, shuffling sideways to cut into his breakfast.
We’ve practiced this, slip into a two-step. Luke hums a melody

so I’ll sing the last few words, watch him crinkle his nose in response,
watch him move in waves across the gritty floor, mapping slow,
cyclical paths we follow like trolley cars. The room settles
under the weight of his calm, as all spaces do.

I hold my hands inches from the windowpane, to feel the cold
glowing off it, and the day grows up around us.

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