Sometimes.

Sometimes
when I look at you
I can scarcely breathe.
Even still.
Sometimes.

And though we met; becoming best friends.
And married.
I thought.  At first.  A wedding.
The most important day.

And as important as it was.
Walking down the aisle.
Becoming one.
Now I know.

And sometimes
when I look at you.
I can scarcely breathe.
Even still.
Sometimes.

Because even better the years.  Pressing on.
That aisle taking us places we never knew.
Our children, so long in coming, now grown.

The romance of a look.
A quiet understanding.
Of the years.  The travels.
Experiences beyond capturing on a page.
Known only to us.

And sometimes
when I look at you.
I can scarcely breathe.
Even still.
Sometimes.

An empty nest now.
Romance continuing.

In unexpected places.

More recently. Surgery for me.
And you.  Hunched up all night on a window seat.
Allaying my fears.  Comforting.  Helping.
Morning coming hard.

Walking the corridors.  
Funny looking socks and hospital gown and hair askew; dragging an IV.
Taking your arm.  Slowing your gait.
You wrinkled and tired.
Us both.  Grateful.

And when we rounded that corner.
With a visitor calling out.
"Looks like you're walking down the aisle."

We laughed.

The absurdity of the idea. 
Post-op disheveled.

But he saw it.
This stranger.

The reason for aisle walking.
On that day.  Every day.
Shimmering through the ugly.  The ordinary.
In unexpected places.

This love.

A gift undeserved.
A mystery unsolvable.
An adventure unpredictable.
Life together.

And that is why.

Still.

When I look at you
I can scarcely breathe.