Over his right shoulder, a small cloud appears,
from nothing to something.
about easy things.
The cloud doubles in size.
I pass him the water,
watch it glisten on his lip.
The cloud billows at its edges,
blows, changes shape.
We don’t talk about the children
we cannot have.
Amoeba-like, the cloud divides.
With the back of his hand he wipes his mouth,
tells a joke, grins white.
The cloud thins, fades, returns to blue.
I brush my fingertips against his cheek.
A patch of blue breathes white.
Out of nothing, something.