Reality is beautiful. There’s dishes from the night in the sink, an ashtray on the kitchen counter, all evidences of two people who finally lived, instead of existing, after a long, long time, scattered all over the house. Your shirt comes down my knees, almost. I wear that to make breakfast, despite my own closet spilling clothes onto bedroom floor. Because your shirt is real. You stretch and follow me shirtless into the kitchen, even though your clothes are freshly washed and folded in your closet. Because skin, skin is real. We make breakfast, touching in one small way or another. We laugh. The cereal gets soggy. We really don’t care. Reality is beautiful.