This is the boring kind of love. This is the stable kind of
love. This is the kind of love you might have seen your parents share. Or maybe
not. This love is quiet. This love is simple. There are no grand gestures in
this love. This love is ordinary. This love is suburbia exemplified. This love
isn’t written about in books. This love will never be immortalized in poetry.
This love is a common kind of love. This love is everywhere. This love is
everyone.
This love starts when you stagger out of bed in the morning.
You are a rumpled, creased mess of imperfections. Morning breath is stinky, but
I’ll peck you anyway (on the cheek, mind you). Or maybe this love is the love
that prompts you to buy me sunflowers. I keep them in a vase because they make
everything bright and remind me of your smile. This love makes you shake your
head with a fond smile when you find ink stains on the sheets – I always forget
to cap the pen. This love is the cup of coffee I make for myself while watching
the kettle for your tea. This love is the omelet you made, burnt to crisp, just
the way I like it. This love is the scent of your aftershave that clings to my
skin long after your arms have left. This love is the barely visible lipstick
stain at the edge of your cheek. This love is my mocking laughter trailing your
work day. This love is your kind eyes that get me through hell. This love is a
text reminding you to pick up some milk. This love is a voice message telling
me to do the fucking laundry
already. This love is a snicker that
escapes me in a tutorial when I remember you weep like a baby over Nemo last
night. This love is running into you at the Library. This love is fighting over
the printer. This love is eating apple pie while listening to you proclaim your
love for the latest pretentious fad in your life. This love is the roll of my
eyes and the pursing of your lips.
This love is running late for the afternoon lectures, so very late because I waylaid you into a bookshop and we never wanted to leave. This love is waiting for you in the biting cold. This love is walking home, tripping over cobblestones, cursing the wind and your guffaws that draw curious stares. This love is dropping you off at that cafĂ©. This love is picking up milk and your favorite cereal because essay season is coming. This love is opening the door to ‘our’ flat. This love is hoovering compulsively after your trail of crumbs. This love is starting the gas to put together dinner. This love is the smoke alarm going off because I was too engrossed in the book of poems you gifted me. This love is feeding your fish even if they creep me out. This love is catching up on sitcoms while I wait for you. This love is finishing a hot shower early to save hot water for you. This love is you stumbling through the front door and telling me I could almost pass for cute when my hair dry in damp waves and I wear my pink hippo pajamas. This love is dinner and discussing how to renew the lease agreement. This love is bills, plaster cracking in the kitchen and the mysterious sound the toilet makes. The love is complaining about the fogey old neighbours. This love is watching you do the dishes. This love is drying the dishes and putting them back and pretending not to notice when you smell my hair. This love is doing assigned readings while trying to push you off the sofa. This love is hiding behind you when the couple kisses onscreen and making barfing noises. This love is throwing another log in the fire because you are too cozy to move. This love is switching off all the lights and stroking your hair in the firelight. This love is setting alarms for the morning. This love is shaking you awake to put you to bed. This love is putting the covers on you and whispering good night. This love is watching your eyes go soft with unnamed things. This love is not saying I love you. This love is never having said it. This love is knowing your girlfriend is a sweetheart and never being able to do that to her. This love is you thinking my boyfriend is an idiot but making him your bro all the same. This love is duty, honour and all the silly things grown ups do. This love is sleeping in my bed, across the room from yours and knowing we are the 3D depiction of the Penrose Stairs- we could climb forever and never reach higher. This love is not a love after all. This love is a domestic kind of love.
This love is running late for the afternoon lectures, so very late because I waylaid you into a bookshop and we never wanted to leave. This love is waiting for you in the biting cold. This love is walking home, tripping over cobblestones, cursing the wind and your guffaws that draw curious stares. This love is dropping you off at that cafĂ©. This love is picking up milk and your favorite cereal because essay season is coming. This love is opening the door to ‘our’ flat. This love is hoovering compulsively after your trail of crumbs. This love is starting the gas to put together dinner. This love is the smoke alarm going off because I was too engrossed in the book of poems you gifted me. This love is feeding your fish even if they creep me out. This love is catching up on sitcoms while I wait for you. This love is finishing a hot shower early to save hot water for you. This love is you stumbling through the front door and telling me I could almost pass for cute when my hair dry in damp waves and I wear my pink hippo pajamas. This love is dinner and discussing how to renew the lease agreement. This love is bills, plaster cracking in the kitchen and the mysterious sound the toilet makes. The love is complaining about the fogey old neighbours. This love is watching you do the dishes. This love is drying the dishes and putting them back and pretending not to notice when you smell my hair. This love is doing assigned readings while trying to push you off the sofa. This love is hiding behind you when the couple kisses onscreen and making barfing noises. This love is throwing another log in the fire because you are too cozy to move. This love is switching off all the lights and stroking your hair in the firelight. This love is setting alarms for the morning. This love is shaking you awake to put you to bed. This love is putting the covers on you and whispering good night. This love is watching your eyes go soft with unnamed things. This love is not saying I love you. This love is never having said it. This love is knowing your girlfriend is a sweetheart and never being able to do that to her. This love is you thinking my boyfriend is an idiot but making him your bro all the same. This love is duty, honour and all the silly things grown ups do. This love is sleeping in my bed, across the room from yours and knowing we are the 3D depiction of the Penrose Stairs- we could climb forever and never reach higher. This love is not a love after all. This love is a domestic kind of love.
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