Coaster

Is it not enough to say I love you? Is it not enough that I won't remember any of the words I'm saying now when morning breaks? You smiled at me. Your tooth is chipped (on a slide you told me once) I like your crooked teeth and your crooked smile and your blue eyes that are water rings from glasses of water staining your table no matter how many times you tell me to use a coaster. I always forget. You are a coaster kind of person. You are a tapper. A finger rhythm maker. I think I found it annoying on the first day but by the second I was used to hearing the steady beating heart of your soul. I like it when I am the drum. I like it when to say goodbye you punch me with a light fist on the shoulder. It means more than a kiss. It's awkward and silly and it just fits (we aren't the kind of people that publicly bare all) and that's good. Nobody else needs to understand our complexities. Our routines. Leg sandwiches. Head on head on shoulder. Is it bad sometimes I just smell you because it calms me down? You are safety you are warmth you are blanket. Soft folds of white cotton. Nest. When we hold hands it's wierd you are so tall but I am small with long limbs and we're twisted but we laugh and say it spoils it all but ivy wraps around the house, weaves itself around drainpipes. I can do that. The disappointment when I don't know what you're playing on guitar but you don't read like I do. We are different, mighty different. Different patches of the same quilt. I miss you now we're both busy but summer is on its way so till then I'll keep all this inside but know even when you're not with me, you always are.

I woke up and wrote this in darkness. I didn't think about it. I did not remember what I had written in the morning. Looking back there are small errors, and things I would change, but I have chosen to present it as my groggy semi-concious brain thought best.