Two minutes of life

You were folding laundry, arms full of quiet duty,
your back to me, caught in the rhythm of life
creased shirts, small socks, the motions of habit.
I stepped behind you, no words,
only the slow language of arms
wrapping gently around your waist.

You stilled.
My lips found the curve of your neck,
and you tilted your head,
silent, yielding, inviting more
as if you remembered me,
as if we both remembered.

I kissed you again, deeper this time,
my arms firm,
like I was trying to hold onto
something slipping.

And then
just like that
I stepped away.
Back to life.

It was nothing.
It changed nothing.
It solved no old wounds,
no words found their way through.
No map to the distance we sometimes feel.

But in those two minutes,
your skin against mine,
I saw her again
the woman who once made the world vanish
with a smile,
the one who took my breath away,
with miracle.

Two minutes.
The world paused.
Not fixed.
But remembered.

And that, for now,
was enough.