I text you.
As usual.
It’s jokey.
You say that top I’m wearing would look good on your floor.
Then you stop.
Correct yourself.
‘Our.’
Our floor?
‘Us’, ‘we’, ‘you’, ‘me’.
Our.
You say you’ll take care of me and I tell you I won’t run away.
You joke about the pressure.
You want to see me again.
You want to kiss me a million times.
You say you’re my guy and I’m your girl.
Our floor, our lives, our one mind together.
Our.
You tell me in sleepy pillow talk a thousand miles away.
‘I’m wrapped around your finger.’
‘I’, ‘you’, ‘me’, ‘we’.
I have to google it.
Am I manipulative because of it?
Or do I have way too much power in this situation?
The internet tells me I should be happy.
You are already head over heels.
Am I head over heels?
Are ‘we’ head over heels?
We joke again.
If we were rich, where would we live.
‘New York, of course,’ I said.
‘Let’s get a place in the Caribbean too.’ He said.
An island built for two,
Just me and you.
An island un-alone,
We say it over the phone.
I wish I was permanently near,
Not far,
So that you and I, us,
Could become an ‘our’.