Our love carries poems on its back in case we fight.
Our love is never patient when stuck in traffic.
Our love walks in slow motion when we kiss,
and runs in a marathon when it is raining.
Our love is lying on hardwood pretending to be soft.
Our love is a car window during a rainstorm,
and the wind shield pipers that are not working
when we have too much to drink.
Our love trips and wobbles and faints if it sees a spider.
Our love places cloud upon cloud of wet paper on our spines
in case the ceiling caught fire because we are too busy kissing,
and making paper boats until the sink and our throat drowns.
Our love has an endless supply of gift wrappers and
refrigerator magnets in case we forget each other’s birthday.
I know it sounds like a lie but yours is three hundred and
twenty six days. And our love is anything that holds and is held
in case our seat belts are not working because even with amnesia
my heart will still remember your name. I promise.
Our love is our love when we are here,
sometimes even more when we are not.
Our love is the only thing that makes me want to stay,
and when you told me that, it sounded as if our love
finally decided it will.
—  Kharla M. Brillo, It Did. It Always.