(ily)

I crave domesticity with you,

a cupboard full of mismatched mugs,

fighting words that are still gentle (I love you),

morning breath, bumping around each other in a too-small kitchen,

tap-tap (I love you) on the backs of your hands, your butt, your chest.

crummy jokes that you laugh at anyway,

silent conversations, all breath and heartbeat (I love you),

time a metronome in the back corner,

underscore and audience,

swaying to this sloppy symphony

we're learning to call love.