Not This Life

In another life, perhaps it’s all different.

Morning coffee, rush hour, shitty boss,

steady pay.

I chit-chat casually with coworkers

about politics and the pointless:

he said, she said,

she fucks, they fuck,

sportsball teams, blockbuster flicks.

Filtered-water cooler bullshit.

The front desk lady flirts often

and invites me out for drinks,

But in another life I have you

at home, waiting

with the kids so we can all talk

about our respective days.

We don’t do takeout too often

because in another life we both love to cook.

After the kids scoot off to bed, we share

a cocktail or two and kiss

like it was the first time.

Feelings afloat, falling,

like an adolescent descent

on a juvenile roller coaster.

I can see the sun in your eyes,

feel the summer on your skin,

hear the warmth on your breath.

I taste the whiskey and innocence of your kiss

and wonder how I got so lucky,

but luck is for losers in another life.

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