Common House Magazine

I’m certain it was an accident,

but you’d also know if your wife

switched pillows

when changing the bedding

because your tired neck’s accustomed to

the angle between your head

and Heaven.

How easy it is to mix up domesticity and memory

when the shapes appear the same;

how simple it is to lament the loss of depth

when your body has already molded

to the slumber.

I’m scared to ask what’s for dinner

because she knows I must change my diet,

and I imagine a life of boiled chicken

and Greek yogurt flavored in

low blood pressure

and blandness.

She says, I married the best version of you,

and the pre-production model of me

is no longer in existence

but would agree

any 2.0 stems from compromise

and maturity.

There are moments when our errors cost us

and we calculate the price of saving face

or grace,

and when she catches me

swapping out

the pillows from the cases,

it’s as if she’s allowing me to reclaim

the familiarity and comfort

of binging on a large pepperoni pizza

I’m more than willing

to share.