Firsts and lasts, beginnings and ends
always seem to misplace
bites 2 through 34 of a sour green apple,
68 and counting
incomplete paragraphs, thrilling stanzas,
25 years of his heart
jumping each time she reaches for his hand
minute 18 of the two hour train ride,
three half-finished knitting projects
stabbed in the back by their own needles,
the part where prince charming and the wide-eyed girl
stayed up talking all night with eyelids drooping
but with gravity conquered by whatever forces
tugged their lips into delirious smiles,
a dozen books with a delicious old smell
and haphazard bookmarks slicing through their spines
beige walls
three quarters of the way covered
with scrapbook sentimentalities
small infinities of happiness between
the wedding day and till death do us part
so very many middles