I love you even when you kick in your sleep,
like you’re defending the duvet from ghosts.
Even when your feet, frankly,
are blocks of Antarctic ice,
deployed the moment I am warm and settled,
a crime that could, quite reasonably,
be tried at The Hague.
I love you in the quiet moments,
making me coffee I didn’t want,
because you were making one anyway,
and asking is not part of the routine.
I pretend not to notice
when you steal my side of the bed
by millimetres and lies,
as the duvet becomes your personal burrito
and I shiver, as I reach for the blanket
I placed handily just so.
I love you when you sleep,
while unicorns puff rainbows, apparently,
and you lie there, innocent and peaceful,
as my nose hairs burn off one by one.
They’re gone now.
Veterans to the gases,
and I remain immune.
And then there is your cat.
He was our moggy but he made his choices clear.
He appears without warning,
claims the centre like it was always his,
and looks at me as though I’ve wandered in late.
You say nothing.
You never do.
This is how power works.
You are beautiful,
yes,
but also the person who makes weird noises
when concentrating,
and still somehow expects desire
to survive all of this.
It does.
Against the odds.
Against fur, cold feet, gravity,
time, and common sense.
Because Valentine’s isn’t a single day.
If it were,
we’d be well past our sell-by date.
It’s every day instead.
Every gripe, every habit,
every small thing that makes you
so imperfectly perfect.
Choosing you, again and again.
Despite my better wisdom
Every damn day.