It was simple and suddenly there; not a question or a declaration — just a quiet statement. For a moment, I guess, we were mystified.
Bewildered spectators. Tried skeptics.
Love didn’t have anything at all to do with it.
It was like gravity. It was just relative. It was asylum in the spring and pathology in the summer.
It was the way you grinned when I was annoyed at you, the way my hands tangled in your terribly messy honey hair.
It was the way you left, so I held the door. The way I feigned an iron jaw so that you wouldn’t think to tread backwards.
The rush of relief I felt when your things left my shelves.
It was sleeping in the middle of my bed. It was letting someone else sleep on your side.
It was building a home with myself.