Infinity

You come home.

Take the paper in.

Feed the dog.

Check your messages.

He comes an hour later, glasses askew, tie loosened: A comic stereotype.

A stooped-for kiss.

A dinner of sausages and onions and mashed potatoes and peas.

“How was your day?”

“Good enough.”

TV.

Ice-cream.

You leave the hallway light on when you sleep.

….to have and to hold…

….for better or for worse….

“I do.”

Those words that birth a universe.

This universe has edges though,

You can’t quite see around it, what’s on the other side,

But you can see that there is another side.

You wonder.

Come home.

Bring the paper in.

Dog comes barking, tail thumping.

Three messages.

He shows up after an hour;

There’s an ink stain on his striped green and white shirt.

“Good day?”

“Good enough.”

A peck on the cheek.

A dinner of chops and onions and mashed potatoes and peas.

TV.

Ice cream.

You lie in bed and stare longingly at the darkness.

Tomorrow you’ll begin again.

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work