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.