Maybe they’re little things. Maybe they mean nothing. Maybe in the
end you’ll be the fool for assuming the sum of a million mundane might be love.
And maybe in the end there will be nothing but hurt. And maybe the road to hell
is paved with assumptions just like this. But you don’t care.
He changes the alarm from buzz to radio and resets it for you on the mornings
when you don’t have to get up until hours after he’s gone.
He runs his fingertips over the edges of your hair, sending a chill down your
spine, as he sleeps.
He just barely brushes the small of your back in a crowded room to let you know
he’s right behind you.
He takes one of the sketches you’ve balled up and thrown away because you
couldn’t get it just right and hangs it on the side of the refrigerator.
He picks up your dirty clothes and wet towels off the bathroom floor when
you’ve left them there because after a double shift you couldn’t bring yourself
to do it.
He lets you rub his back when he’s sick.
He lets you sit in his lap when you’re happy.
He lets you wrap your arms around him and whisper into his neck when you’re mad
at your mother or pissed off at your best friend or upset with the world.
He lets you tell him how much you need him and want him and he just smiles back
at you.
So maybe they are little things. And maybe they mean nothing to anyone else.
But, they mean something to you. And you’re damn sure this is something very
much like love.
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