It was something we used to make fun of together, this need
for people to believe that their love was tremendous
that they were somehow better lovers
than all the other (millions and millions of) lovers that had existed
since the world was fire-new.
We never thought so.
We never made people stop and gape in the street. We didn’t spend
hours in IKEA, dizzy, picking out curtains
for some stupid apartment we didn’t own.
Your mother didn’t tell me in a conspiratorial whisper
that she’d never seen you so happy. Our steps
weren’t evenly matched and we didn’t both dream
of lying on a rotten lawn somewhere, picking out
improbable patterns in the stars. No,
nothing like that, but I wish I’d told you.
That- even though the universe moves on indifferent
and surely less ordinary loves exist-
I felt satisfied when you touched me,
with your small fingers, or held me
silent in the night.
I wish I’d told you even once-
mentioned in the most casual ordinary way-
it was all, it was more than