I call it love

I keep the keys
in a shallow bowl by the door –
metal touching metal,
nothing that asks
who returns first.

he lines his shoes
parallel to the wall,
toe to heel,
while I watch,
so the floor stays quiet.

I arrange the room
so nothing interrupts
the line of sight,
the chair angled,
the curtain left half-open,
as if light should know
where to stop.

the clock in the kitchen
runs,
but I no longer check it.

he moves quietly.
he has learned the floorboards,
the hours when I prefer
not to be asked questions.
when I enter,
something in him tightens.

I watch him cross the kitchen
like a scene rehearsed once
and kept.
there is nothing theatrical here.

only the way I pour the water,
set the glass closer to my hand
than his,
I power down his phone
and place it face down,
decide when the window stays closed
though it is warm.
I decide everything.

we speak of small things.
paint drying unevenly.
a neighbor’s dog.
milk gone sour before the date.
the radiator clicking at night.
the future reduced to a shape
that fits inside a sentence.

he listens
with a patience that feels earned
and borrowed at the same time.

at times I catch myself
editing reality –
cutting pauses shorter,
holding eye contact
a moment longer
than he can endure –
and he does.

I call it steadiness.
I call it love
when I am not alone.

I find all of this amusing.
I like it.
does he like it?
he does,
as long as he is still here.

– what are you willing to do?
– I am willing to do anything.

at night the house settles.
the light switch by the bed
stays where I left it.

something remains unspoken,
like electricity behind the wall –
there,
but never addressed,
dangerous only
when mistaken for light.

I know this is where
the metaphor fails.
I know carrying a posture
out of the dark
and into the day
alters its meaning.

still, I leave my hand
where he will find it.
but I can always take it away.