in two-thousand eight

a day late in fall.
lying on the bed,
we listen to rain on
the tin roof.
echoes of voices from
the other room.
when day slips into evening,
and dreams slip into waking,
we fall fast asleep.
i reach out, your hand as if to shake.
three quick squeeze
to tell you that
i. love. you.
to tell you that,
while clock ticks,
of this something,
before time runs out,
because
i loved you in
two-thousand eight.