Clownfish

We are clownfish.

Writhing, dancing, delicate in our anemone oasis.

In the spaces between long, invasive arms are our own grabby fins, clutching each other in the quaint safety of our home.

They can’t touch us here.

Here,

where I’m brushing my teeth in the dark

so the light won’t wake you from the first restful slumber you’ve had in weeks.

Here,

where we sit on the floor in a flood of red and green light,

your angelic face lit up by the promise of a new year.

Here,

where we waltz in our socks to the songs in our own heads,

accompanied by the sashay of the trees and the pitter-pat of two syncopated heartbeats,

muted under soft sweaters and snowkissed scarves.

Here,

between the gaps of our seafloor paradise,

two stubborn little clownfish -

vulnerable only to the gentle waves as they sway back and forth,

flotsam and jetsam among pink and white sand.