say it again

I lose what you’re saying somewhere between the first word and the way you say my name. Your voice softens when you talk about what you love. Like you forget how careful you usually are. You tell me you miss me while I’m right here, and I understand how distance follows you even into closeness. You say something sweet and I tease you for it. Like we both don’t already know how easily it undoes me. I catch myself watching instead of listening. Not because I don’t care. Because wanting you makes me careful with what I let myself say. I start imagining a life made of ordinary moments. Your voice at the end of the day. You saying you’ll marry me like it’s already decided. Say it again. Not because I missed it. But because I want to keep you here a little longer.