When we drove across Montana,
you suddenly exclaimed
now you finally knew why they call it "Big Sky Country."
The sky was just so big, so blue. You breathed.
So blue.
I didn't hesitate. I knew what to do.
I told you that your eyes were even prettier than that sky.
I was lying; at that moment I was thinking about everything
but your eyes.
* * *
That year they sent me to the San Francisco office,
you probably don't remember this anymore but
one time you called me in the late afternoon (your night)
and asked me what the sky looked like over there.
I told you that the sunset over the Pacific was amazing,
and how much I wished you could be there to see it with me,
in my arms.
But that was a lie. There had been a lapse the night before,
with Janine, the director of Asian sales and marketing,
and I couldn't bear to look out the window,
for fear I might see my own reflection
in the glass.
* * *
Last year when we said our vows on the shore
on Catalina, under the bluest sky I had ever seen,
I vowed to love you as long as the sky is blue.
The sky is still blue.