Parachute
she smells of sage and the binding of a new book discovered in a dying bookstore. she lets me in to read when she is not afraid. she builds things for a living I asked her to build us a library to read and grow old in and a home on the pacific with a garden to gather tomatoes and collard greens with our weathered hands. she dresses in safety. a plain t-shirt. a button down sweater. flat leather boots. hair pulled back tightly in to a ponytail and tucked. no makeup. no jewelry. nondescript CK underwear. she paces around the apartment making copious lists in perfectly straight lines in a black moleskin. she specializes in risk-benefit analysis and excel spreadsheets I run my fingers along the grooves etched in her forehead I notice them whenever she lifts her head to take a clear look at me to love a woman like me, I know, is her riskiest bet yet. no mitigation. no expectation of certainty. just plain courage.