you’d cook with sleeves rolled up,
correct my chopping gently.
i’d burn the onions,
laugh it off,
watch you fix it quietly.

we’d walk in step;
you knowing the way,
me pretending i do too.
you’d point out birds,
teach me their names,
and i’d forget them
just to hear you say them again.

at night,
we’d watch old films.
i’d talk through the quiet,
you’d pause, patient,
like you always are.

sometimes i still miss
our quiet love,
even though
it lived only in my head.