Helium and lines:

In the beginning,
the words filled so much space.
I love you.

Like giant helium balloons–a parade
floating through your studio apartment,
colorful and delicate.

You squeezed around them carefully,
shielding them from sharp edges as you
waltzed beneath dangling strings.

Then, one day, you said it matter-of-factly.
I love you.

As if it were obvious–like saying,
“I’m unloading the dishwasher,” or, “I took
out the trash.” A verbal tick on an unspoken to do list.

The words no longer fill the room.
They settle heavily now, etched into the lines of your face: letters
carved along your jaw, the creases of your chin,
the wrinkles by your eyes.

And you ask, where’s the parade?
The balloons? The spectators?
Is it not worth celebrating?
Is it worth it, at all?

Yet every week, the dishwasher empties, the trash disappears,
and the lines on your face deepen, curve, and connect– the words running together.
I love you, I love you, I love you.

About the Author
Elizabeth Autrey is a criminal defense attorney based in Atlanta, GA. She writes briefs for work and poems in her free time.