So maybe you aren’t poetry,

You don’t have to be.

You are the lines of prose

Strung together

Into witty remarks,

The kind that never fails

To elicit a giggle.
 
 

You are the hands

That absentmindedly reach for

Mine in a crowd,

The hands that rub my tummy

As you google

“Remedies for cramps.”
 
 

You are the fingertips

That brush away stray tears,

But more often

The stray specks of sauce

From the corners of the

Lips of a clumsy eater.
 
 

You are the

Mischievous smile

As you hope for a

Beaming one in return,

After I win a game

That you only pretended

To lose.
 
 

You are the

In-between moments,

And small thoughts.

You are the

Knowing glances,

And the breathless laughter.

You are the little things.

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