Bathroom Love

At the edge of the couch she wiggles,
a stubborn little boat refusing the tide.
Now, we say, before you burst.

She makes a tiny, fraught journey
to the far bathroom. Halfway there
her voice floats back:
guess what, I love you!

We flick signs with our hands,
like paper airplanes through warm air,
or holler back
Tell us after… sometimes just — GO.
Her urgency grows as she rounds the corner

shouting her affections like spells
she casts to hold back the goblins.
The shadows might blush and shrink away.

She sits on the seat, still calling out love,
as if it were a rope she could pull herself along.
Already her voice grows softer, more brave.

O, little town of fear and plumbing!
One day she’ll forget to yell.
One day she’ll just go,
quiet as milk in a glass—
and I’ll sit there
holding a rope no one tugs anymore.