We say we love each other. You twist
both pairs of our hands tight
together each night before you drift off
to sleep. We kiss, unashamedly open-mouthed
on the benches in parks.
I learn to fall asleep
with my head in the crook of shoulder and arm,
yours, though it means I’ll wake
early and with an ache that lasts all day.
I wash the dishes after you cook dinner.
I explain to you my trust issues.
Your mouth finds my neck while I stand over the sink.
I wrote today.