We say we love each other. You twist
both pairs of our hands tight,
fingers curved and reaching, together
before you drift off
to sleep. We kiss, unashamedly open-mouthed
on park benches, while
the owners of dogs of all sizes walk by, varying
degrees of disgust or apathy
plain on their faces.
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. A cold breeze blows through
the open window. You
add sugar and milk to our teas in the right way.
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.