We wake up in a bed that remembers
more arguments than orgasms.
But you’re here.
Still.
Again.
And that’s enough goddamn proof
that love is a verb — not a miracle.
You say “I love you”
like it’s both a promise and a dare.
I say it back
like I mean it,
because I do —
even when I don’t know how to show it
without first crumbling
like a dried starfish on the shore of my own ego.
We fight like orphans of affection.
You throw the past on the table
like evidence.
I counter with inherited silence.
The walls have heard more
than any therapist could survive.
But we stay.
Even when the house stinks
of ego, shame, and garlic gone bitter.
Even when I sound
like my father’s unfinished sentence,
and you flinch
like someone else said it first.
We fuck like touch has a ticking clock.
Like forgiveness might live
somewhere between the hips.
And afterward,
we hold each other
like addicts gripping sobriety
on day three —
not healed,
but breathing.
We laugh —
not because it’s funny,
but because the sink
is too full of our tears already.
You chop vegetables like penance.
I do dishes like confession.
We don’t split chores —
we split trauma.
Fifty-fifty.
Raw.
Unwashed.
Some nights you say,
“Don’t leave.”
And I don’t.
Not because I know how to stay —
but because I want to learn.
And you let me.
Because we’re not healing —
we’re hurting better.
Softer.
With consent.
With context.
With eye contact.
We still say “I love you.”
Loudly.
After sex.
Before sleep.
During war.
We say it with cracked voices
and trembling hands —
with the kind of hope
only fools, dogs, or poets
dare carry into the fire.
Because this is what love looks like
when both of you come from wreckage:
not flowers,
not fairy tales —
but two stubborn assholes
choosing each other
against the grain
and despite the smoke.
So no —
we don’t make sense.
We make love.
Over.
And over.
Until the world shuts up
and lets us.
And in the betweens —
we fuck.
Because survival sometimes
needs ritual too.
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