Sandwich

by Catherine Newman

I’m so in love with her that if we were marsupials, I’d be stuffing her grown self back into my pouch.

This is how it is to love somebody. You tell them the truth. You lie a little. And sometimes you don’t say anything at all.

I craved the kind of sleep that you wake from feeling like you’ve been on the ocean floor, bloop-bloop-blooping slowly up to the surface only after many drowned hours.

What, exactly, are we doing here? Why do we love everyone so recklessly and then break our own hearts? And they don’t even break. They just swell, impossibly, with more love.