I love how you never complain about the dishes.
The way you turn clean laundry
into perfect geometry.
I love how good your coffee is.
How we can lay in bed watching bad TV
with our legs in a matrix of such good, easy warmth.
I love the funny way you make eggs,
your allegiance to the dog,
the strength of your back,
the dirt under your nails.
I love your chicken pot pie,
how you pretend to speak French,
the way you dance, spontaneously,
while you're driving.
I love your enormous collection
of Chinese herbs,
your preference for Aveda,
the pale blue towels from Restoration Hardware,
your butter dish, your Calphalon.
I love your eyes in the morning,
the squint of them, the soft, strange tiredness
of you becoming awake, again.
The gifts you deliver when I least expect it.
Small, precise brilliances,
some minor but miraculous budding thing
that survived the rain or the heat.
I'd walk by, not knowing
what to do with that armature of branches,
the dense veil of leaves.
But you stay
until your fingers find jewelry.
And at home, after our first kiss,
you do not set your bags down.
You do not move to the mail.
You don't try to restore
any of the mess I made
while you were gone.
You unwrap only your closed fist,
lay it flat against my palm, press together
the tiny inches between us, and say