Poesía

The good laugh started a few days after we met
when I died,
wheezing with asthma, breathing quiet,
to stop the intrusive thoughts at 4 am from reaching the bed,
cooling down one leg with the fan on max.

Where you made fun of everything about me and all the things I said,
even the way I faced and how I slept
without a pillow, laying down, hitting the mattress bare necked.

And there is not a good laugh I regret
Like rolling on the carpet of the Egyptian themed hotel
cracking up about my Planet of the Apes
mo-cap impression
or my Stressed Out beatbox session.

I guess you could say it's all just good-fun aggression
when you start to question
my sanity a bit.

Because the good laugh hits
late at night, after a cookie's split,
after wine is sipped,
after I slide in the ditch
between the beds that keep us together
until the good laugh decides that enough has been said
and we should puff up the feathers
to hit the hay.

Or you could say
that we have a good laugh every day,
but differentiate
the good laugh as a different stage,
where I know yours as a Southern accent
and you know mine as my strange way
of working words.

Where I might sound like the biggest nerd
explaining what salt water does to your cells
or why the X-Men
movies are out of line.

So I hope we'll live with the good laugh forever
and die of laugher
time after time.