My love is your mattress without the sheets as we lay barechested on the floor
because you just don’t trust it because it came with your apartment
and who knows who's been on it doing what?
My love is buying pillowcases from target that you say are too floral but you use them anyway.
Your love is listening to crime podcasts when I’m in the passenger seat
because you know I want to know who killed Jonbenet Ramsey,
as ridiculous as it seems,
and because I want to know how to save us from dying.
Your love is socks folded in my drawer.
My love is my legs across your lap and my head back in laughter.
You once told me that I reminded you of Pennywise when I smiled
and I laughed and called you Freddy Krueger.
My love is loud shouts across your apartment reminding you to grab a water
before you go.
Your love is tapping my knee to teach me morse code,
and me, laughing,
realizing you don’t even know it.