I do not know how to love you in moderation.

My loneliness curls up next to you, falls softly asleep in your arms, and suddenly I am so light I could float away.

On Sunday mornings, I am a mug of hot tea, fragile and overflowing at the thought that in some other life, we are apart.

I do not know how to love you in moderation.

I imagine your cool fingertips tracing the back of my neck, and it doesn't matter that I don't know how.

Because it is in loving you, that I am home.