I have a silver husband who aches to be gold.
He pries open my chest every night before bed, hoping he'll find a welder inside.
He mows the lawn that's greener on the other side, because he wouldn't know any better.
He tends to leave the shears on the bronze shelf in our garage.
Morning afters are now evening befores and he stays up longer in his briefs.
It's not that I met a second best man or downgraded at the altar.
He cracks under the pressure sometimes.
But he'd rather be melted down into bangles of gold around my tiny wrists.
He hopes to close his eyes and read movie reels, but he falls asleep, instead.
I don't apologize for his stains nor does he mine.
I kiss his slanted knuckles in bed.
He tosses pillows and turns the feathers into fireflies.
They make our thighs shine under the bedroom lamplight.
He counts the beauty marks on my skin, never knowing he counts.
As one, he draws beads of beauty across my skin and slides past my delusions.
He runs a silver chain down my back, saving for a string of gold.
I write numbers of love on his chest when he's sick.
And motivational circles along his arms when he just can't get out of bed.
His heart's not into it.
But I'm into his.
He wishes to dip that organ into a bucket of yellow, wanting to change it to gold.
I would have to sticky paste the glitter on.
He wishes to fashion a paper ring out of gold.
He keeps a plastic crown on his dresser table – waiting.
Practicing on our creaking couch, it plays the part of throne.
His veins bristle beneath his skin at the thought of becoming gold.
He thinks if the light hits him right he'll sparkle 24 karats more.
He ignores the thought he's already my precious metal.
He's heavier than gold itself.
He's gold in our home.
I have a silver husband who doesn't know.