My love boomerangs and shapeshifts, and hovers like goosebumps leapt out of my skin.
My love’s scratched up like a record that skips as well as it croons, like a window that can’t quite stay open but tries, like hardwood floors that the dogs are allowed to dance on now.
My love gets growing pains, and cricks in the neck from holding up dreams, and aches in the back from carrying too much of itself.
My love is yellow, and hides in the belly of the beast of grief and whistles a happy tune until the sun comes in to greet it. When it’s warm enough, my love invites you in for tea.
Tries to greet you like a song. Tries to remember your chorus. Tries to hold you under my eyelids so I can dream something wonderful for you.
My love is wordless most days, invisible often. It’s only really clear in the way I set the table for you, the way I stock your tea in my pantries. The way I leave hearts under your pictures. The way I type, and erase, and type, and erase, looking for exactly the right words to greet you.
How can you love me, you say, you don’t even know me.
My love doesn’t know, but it’s sure.
It’s sure like a raindrop battling to the ground, like a tiny mouse barreling towards home, like there, there, there. Like that is where I belong, where I’ll be safekept, where I might be needed.
My love knows a friend when it sees one.