somehow, once maybe, or more

I decided,

that all the cities and experiences and exotic tastings

of exotic lives

do not match the warmth and filling and completion of

laughing at our own nonsense here.

our clothes smell of burnt charcoal and soggy marshmallows,

small nats and nighttime creatures dart in and around and on top of the skin of my arms--

we pull the blanket closer

there is laughter and banter and the subtle sighs of late night stars, content with their bedtime whisperings of our joys. 

we do not know, that this: 

the bantering, the marshmallows, the stories of volcanoes and stars, 

the thick and thin flames quietly bursting from the ground, flickers and reds, blues, oranges--

these:

are our great joys.

I see you with your old skin

the way your hand should be leathery but

is soft and downy like the feathers lining a nest

the way your eyes are satin, and shift between remembered youth 

and the dullness of remembered aging

This is my apology, for never knowing you as young.

For not remembering with you your childhood, your sister, your dearest friends.

Your time has not been forgotten.

irrelevance is

not participating in the 

small details surrounding you

not delighting in seemingly insignificant accomplishments

not delighting in yourself any longer.