A Mouthful of Maybes

You fall asleep with my hands in your hair

and you look like a little kid —

all tired and messy and vulnerable.

I memorize the way I feel in this moment:

Safe.

Like nothing could change the versions

of ourselves we are right here.

It's 3am and everyone in the house is asleep but me.

I stay up all night trying to find the right words.

All I know is,

I'd follow you anywhere.

All I know is,

I don't want to mess this up.

Aren't some things too good to last, anyway?

---

It's a Friday and my lips are on your neck.

(Do we really want to go there?)

I know that this is different because

I don't want to be reckless this time.

I don't want to get lust drunk or impulsive with you.

I want to be better.

I'm sitting alone in a coffee shop

and I'm crying a little bit

because love has never felt this vulnerable before.

Or this right.

It's got me thinking that

maybe love is just as quiet as it is loud.

Maybe love is found in the most ordinary of moments:

making coffee in the afternoon

watching the pinky-gold sunset

sitting by the creek at midnight

smoking on the roof

laughing about nonsense

sharing dreams like little kids.

Maybe love is the way I trust you:

how I wish you'd been my first kiss all along.

How you've changed me for the better —

how I'm praying that I'll do the same for you.

Maybe you don't even know you're in love

until you're sitting across a room of thirty people

and you catch them watching your every movement:

all twinkly and tender and innocent.

Maybe you don't even know you're in love

until you start counting the time in days

that you get to see their face.

Maybe you don't even know you're in love

until you look up.