Maybe in another life
we’re in the kitchen,
barefoot on cold tile,
arguing about whose turn it is to dry the dishes
but laughing too hard to actually care.
The sink is full.
The day was long.
But nothing is dramatic enough to ruin us.
You bump my hip with yours,
soap on your hands,
music playing from a speaker we bought together
back when together still felt permanent.
We talk about nothing
work, groceries,
how we almost broke once
and how strange it is
that we thought it would end us
Maybe in another life
your silence doesn’t scare me.
Your hesitation isn’t a warning sign,
just a pause between breaths.
Maybe I don’t have to keep proving
I’m worth choosing.
In that life,
love doesn’t feel like standing at the edge of something
waiting to be pushed
It’s steady.
Unremarkable even,
in the way safety always is.
The kind of love
that lives in shared chores
and inside jokes
and the quiet understanding
that neither of us is leaving.
And sometimes I think
that the cruelest part
Is not that we lost each other,
but that I can still see it so clearly.
Us.
At the sink.
Water running.
Hands touching by accident.
Laughing about how we almost gave up on each other
and didn’t.
Jan 1
Jan 1, 2026 at 9:23 PM UTC
Maybe in another life
we’re in the kitchen,
barefoot on cold tile,
arguing about whose turn it is to dry the dishes
but laughing too hard to actually care.
The sink is full.
The day was long.
But nothing is dramatic enough to ruin us.
You bump my hip with yours,
soap on your hands,
music playing from a speaker we bought together
back when together still felt permanent.
We talk about nothing
work, groceries,
how we almost broke once
and how strange it is
that we thought it would end us
Maybe in another life
your silence doesn’t scare me.
Your hesitation isn’t a warning sign,
just a pause between breaths.
Maybe I don’t have to keep proving
I’m worth choosing.
In that life,
love doesn’t feel like standing at the edge of something
waiting to be pushed
It’s steady.
Unremarkable even,
in the way safety always is.
The kind of love
that lives in shared chores
and inside jokes
and the quiet understanding
that neither of us is leaving.
And sometimes I think
that the cruelest part
Is not that we lost each other,
but that I can still see it so clearly.
Us.
At the sink.
Water running.
Hands touching by accident.
Laughing about how we almost gave up on each other
and didn’t.