it's spring, now. we keep our curtains drawn after it rains because the rainbows still make you cringe. the stars are out at night, though, after clear evenings that wait and stick. you explain constellations to me because i never read the books. our bed is always left unmade because whenever one of us walks by it, we like being reminded of hungry hands and hungrier hips. you leave me shower-steam messages on the bathroom mirror. you make us dinner and i watch you stir, secretly using extra ingredients to spell out our initials near the sink. we watch a sad movie and i can't find the tissues, so you let me use your sleeve. "i bought you this." "i know." and then you sneak away, coming back with crackers and a british accent.
in the summer you wake me up with ice cubes and your tongue. our windows stay open all night and you nudge me when the neighbors whisper as they pass our house in the morning, so sure that they heard me the night before. you tell me about how you used to wait for m