Going into these types of things
You learn to expect fireworks
And fields of flowers
And big bass drums.
But he doesn’t love like that.
He loves in small gestures,
A hand on your leg during a film,
An ‘I miss you’ on lonely days.
He doesn’t write poems,
But he listens when you read yours.
He loves with tomato plants,
With homemade risotto with red wine,
And by taking up half the sock drawer.
And so, in those moments
When threatened by the silence
You fell in love with his sweetness,
With good morning hugs
And your hand resting on his hip as he falls asleep.
That because he loves differently, quietly,
Doesn’t mean he loves less.
And it’s still okay to need fireworks sometimes.