real love is boring
in the best way.

real love is excitement
to do all the boring,
adulthood stuff with you.

real love is frustration
that will not outweigh our happiness.

real love is coffee
coffee mate, 1 sugar, ready
as soon as the sun meets our eyes.

real love is family
with four fuzz butts at our sides.

real love is happiness
in all the small, day to day things
we do together day by day.

real love is lust
just from stroking your side.

real love is morning breath kisses;
i scrunch my nose
then come back for more.

real love is choosing you
every single time, no matter who asks.

real love is fighting
and just wanting to stop,
cuddle regardless of who was right.

real love is working together,
balancing duty and quality time.

real love is security
and feeling safe with you
no matter where we are.

real love is us.
in any time or universe, i want us to be us.

i had a kind face, and the kind of smile
only a brother could love
and read beyond the teeth,
biting back bitter amusements
of a broken, brooding boy

you were mine; not in blood but in love,
and we were too small and too young
with too much and not enough
of everything.

brother.
“brother”
bromance.
the lie of the year,
and we had many.

i had chronic denial and you had chronic rejection.
if we said we saw ourselves as siblings,
it would all go away.
my brother from another mother
not a brother at all, but a lie
the hidden gay.

i had a kind face, but you were kind
and i wanted to be that
for you, a light against the shadowy history
the trajectory from ruin to wholeheartedness

you were already wholehearted,
and wholeheartedly in.
brother, i ruined you by calling you brother
with my fear of our friendship: the trajectory from friends to more

now everything between us is gone
and it still feels rather sore
even though i don’t love you anymore

i’m not afraid to say it,
i need it out there so the world knows
how much i love you and how much i treasure you,
and how i’m not ready for you to go
but you deserve to be free of pain
even if life won’t be the same

i’m so thankful you kept your daddy happy
long enough for me to meet him
and that you two shared so many memories
so many journeys, so many stories
and i’m so thankful you became my baby girl too,
that the memories you two had together
are memories you let me see,
and so thankful i have my own memories of him and you and me

i’ve loved you dearly, even when you were naughty
and i’ve loved you as you were happy, playing with the hose
i’ve loved you as you sun bathed
and as you’ve cuddled with me in the cold,
and i’ve loved you as you ate treats
and got excited for fresh meat,
i’ve loved you jealous of the new puppy
and i’ve loved you bright and smart and sneaky

and i love you now as you tell me you’re ready to go
and i’ll always, always love you, more than you’ll ever know.

it’s been a long time, old pal
does the pen grab your hands with fright?
i used to read your poems and songs
like they were lullabies and holidays,
soothing me to sleep and escaping the days,

have you forgotten how to put pen to paper?
how to make fingers type?
is this what it’s like for all the poets whose words weren’t borne of pain?
thinking too ******* what to write, what to say
if they’re not tears, they don’t flow naturally
these words are hard to create

you’re all out of practice
nothing to compose that feels genuine or profound
are you a liar to yourself? have you lost who you once were?
are you not ready to give up what’s already gone?

maybe you’re not a writer anymore
working 6 for 7 in a bar, big boss boy now
happy but frustrated, making money you have no time to spend
but it gets spent anyway
with no quality time to show for it
and you, lying there, awake

staring at a blank page hoping the words will write themselves

wondering if you’re a failure for moving onto something else

do you even want to write anymore?
or do you just miss the freedom?

my happiness looks like this:

three staffordshire bull terriers that keep stealing all the blankets on the bed,
and a fourth back at my mother’s home who cannot contain his excitement when i visit

grey winter morning light leaking in from behind the blinds—
i hate winter and i should be asleep,
but still my happiness includes this:

the hours i lie awake,
still insomnia ridden as i was when i used to write the nights away in sorrow,
but now

i watch videos of people who like the same pretty colours and the same pretty furniture as i do,
decorating their houses and building
useful things

i put a little more spare cash into my savings each week
and squirm impatiently for our first home together

ours. mine and his.

the main picture in my montage of happiness
is the man lying next to me, sound asleep
an arm cuddled around our oldest girl,
both of them snoring and snuffling in their slumber

sounds i loathed from other people
are sounds i cherish from him.
i kiss the tip of his nose,
each cheek,
the curve of his forehead,
the point of his chin
and settle one more on soft, lax lips

my words don’t feel so beautiful
because all life’s beauty, i find in him.
i don’t have poeticism to spare for writing
when all my love letters are spoken to him
and he embodies everything beautiful
from eyes to smile to skin
down to the soul within