happy anniversary

Its been two years, from friend hand wrote vows cause printers can break, to songs we didn't know cause sometimes a friend can't show. We paid a stranger and it made do; we made friends with the mayor and he cried too. But that was before. Before now. Now that our relationship has visiting hours and an access code. Date night tube feeding under romantic fluorescent light, candles not allowed. I sleep in a chair and you in bed but our fingers still hook and touch, so its almost like the space isn't there. Two years, that's the cotton gift, right? Well, I brought none. They got you well stocked. With the white sheets, the sterile blankets, and the fleece restraints. I breathe you. Everything breathes you. It's you. Always you. Cotton just can't say any of that but I guess with the ventilator, you can't say anything either.