It's those little things in life that I truly love.
When we talk on the phone all night,
trading secrets and nonsense through
murmured affections, before we hang up
and retreat to our beds for the night,
falling into the sheets and tangled dreams.
It's when we're sitting together, side by side,
fingers tightly entwined and laughing at
the sweat gathering on our palms, flushing
at the tiny spark of heat when our thighs touch,
no intention of disrupting the gentle quiet that
constructs the only barrier between us.
It's the way you laugh at all of my jokes,
even if they make us both cringe at how bad
they are, we just point out the obvious and laugh it off,
since our lives are short and there's no time for tears or
invalidation or fears or insecurities that plague
our minds in the absence of the other.
It's because you simply act like yourself,
the gears churning in your mind don't grind
together in a splitting headache, they just freeze
and rust, slowing to a stop until all that remains is a
shallow smile on your face that I don't need to analyze
carefully before asking you, "What's wrong?"
It's because it's impossible for you to lie to me.
You have numbers for blood flowing through your veins,
lines of code trailing across the contours of your brain and
leaving no room for anger in your program, only open ears
to listen to me vent my frustrations and the ability to
tolerate my insistent whining.
All of the little things are what I truly love.
There's no betrayal, no sorrow, no complication, no
concerns; no reason to think at all when I'm with you.
My love cannot be anything but pure and good and
true; they laugh now, but someday they'll stop and see
how one can only find happiness when loving someone
so perfectly imaginary.