Look at the time and you say it is morning. Look at the time and I say time is a mathematical equation and I have transposed myself to the other side to find you. Circle you. Underline the length of your body with mine.
I love you because you are the old comfort in a new home— the clinking of a teaspoon against a coffee cup at six in the morning, the heat from the first sip, the silence that fills the room except for places where my footsteps are. Some things don’t change and I am thankful we will always have what is familiar. Same bed in a new address. A different room for the same boy. The usual cup of coffee. An old love rooted in a new body.
I remember how you looked as you stood from the bed to walk to the refrigerator. Your back faced to me, I pretended I was meeting you for the first time. A Monday made for mundane drinks and humdrum conversation: hello, I am tired and you look tired and maybe you know exactly what it’s like to break (little by little). We switched bar stools because mine was wobbly and my elbow brushed your arm. “There’s that look in your eyes again—” you said with a concerned laugh, “—that look that you want me but I’ll never have you no matter how much I wanted you.” After the confusing cab ride of your place or my place or let’s not go anywhere anymore, here I am. And you are coming back to the room with a glass of water. There’s a poem I will not tell you about, except here, if you find this. Did you notice how I left my shoes pointing away from the bed instead of towards it? I want you, but I am giving you that look.