The day after falling in love,
I became unmoored from everything familiar.
This chair, that piece of curtain, all suddenly turned brilliant
And I floated off, as light as a photon.
You stayed behind to guard the perimeters of
our marriage, to summarize the situation when
onlookers stopped to gawk.
"Nothing to see here, folks. Move along," you said
in your crossing guard's voice, the one you used
whenever I was a day late or a dollar short of your estimates.
"It happens every few years. She's just that way," you said,
and the neighbors shuffled off, looking doubtful.
In my altered state, I had no need of food or a clean bathroom,
but I was beset with hiccups and filled with poetry.
Eventually, weeks later, I regained my corporeal form,
which was subject to the usual rules of gravity.
Thus I fell to earth like Icarus, aflame with passion
and disappointment in my too-short flight.