Every night by the fireplace, we’d sleep tight.
Every night, we’d have airtight alibis.
Every night, the rites of spring hung above a mantle.
Every night, a light appeared at the end of the tunnel (divorcing our spouses for each other).
Every night, amirite cast shadows over her eyes.
Every night, more silence and less shyness. Every night of no more none of that because a baby cries: Congratulations, we’re fucking parents!
(maybe I should stick to writing short stories and novelettes.)