The end of just us. Everything is different now. Not just the moments but the unwavering precision of being. The depth of gravity is validated; it’s been valet-parked amid the aisles of handsome memories we’ve carefully stowed in our showroom minds. Those persnickety details, plumbed and pored through historian fingers, are fleeting. Like how little we slept last night, or how sweetly puckered is a nipple, or a dimpled butt cheek, or a pair of baby lips that cusp and coo. They are each devoid of need Or circumstance. Our everythings have altered. Skewed their orbit and shot skyward through that great, dark blossoming orchard of stars by the bushel. We ourselves are more than diaper changing. We are not just us. The us we are is cavernous. It is vast. And it is us. But we will never be just us again.