we all marry thieves.

see, we’re all making careers in robbery. sidelong glances, secret smiles, dimples like parentheses, eyelashes dropping to cheeks. those are the beginnings; they’re just coffee rings on the first page of a thick book. sincerity, it’s our hardest and most precious pitch. the vulnerability, sometimes, of direct eye contact, of first realizations, of risking to love. petty theft, those charms on a bracelet, is worthless, means nothing. one day, that bracelet will be in the back of a drawer or lying forgotten on the floor under a dresser. instead, we plan for the biggest heist of all, the one leap we all have to make, 

because eventually momentary thieves quit the business when they’ve won, when they’ve risked everything,

when, they’ve stolen a heart and tucked into their heart (for safekeeping), carrying it with them wherever they go.

sun coming up over an empty field. he woke her up to watch the day start. they brought the honey nut cheerios from home and stopped at the grocery on the way for a half-gallon of two percent. it’s barely six a.m., and she barely has her eyes open, wearing his tee shirt and his boxers. facing him, she sits cross-legged on a big, faded blanket. he has his knees up, squinting his eyes in the sun. they eat cereal out of mismatching bowls (hers is bigger). the grass around them has gotten awfully tall, enclosing them almost. he smiles at her, because she really belongs to him. finishing her cereal, she leans against his shoulder, eyes closing. he realizes, for the first time, the meaning of good company.