His voice has layers; blanketed soothing calm tones.
Her eyes are oceans and he doesn't know how to swim.

So demurely, he cracks a beer, lights a smoke, and stares at the stars -
or possibly burning bits of cardboard shooting up in the sky -
wondering how much longer he can stay afloat.

She stares at the fire, reading him love poetry through mechanical motions
the flick of a wrist, inhaling smoke and inspiration, exhaling confessions
but she's not going anywhere tonight.

No matter how badly she misses that feeling of home,
when he holds her, it's almost close enough for now.