It would be easier to love you if I didn’t count the measured breaths between speaking; if the silences didn’t hang heavy like black smoke in the hall.
You’d peel oranges for me so I wouldn’t get it stuck beneath my nails and I would always chop your onions, eyes burning.
I guess the first time I saw you I knew it was going to be something hard, something I’d have to work at. So I kissed you quick and then I ran. You’re careful now, I made you that way, accustomed to the sight of my heels.
But, lord, I love the way you creep up behind me. My palms bracing the wall. Neck exposed. The crack in the ceiling and your lips at my pulse, keeping time.