My lover volunteers to count the amount of stairs on each staircase along campus.
Right, left, right, left, right, right-left, right. There we go.
I count the moles along her arms, like a canvas (they are not freckles.)

My lover redefines the status quo,
Chopped hair that repurposes the definition of what it means to be true to yourself
Hues of blue and pink
And green.

It’s difficult to write something that means so much to you when you are infatuated with your own life.
Obsessed, besotted, and bewitched
By a colour that highlights the boring crevasses of each day,
Delaying and obstructing our undeniable decay.

She loves cats,
Not to solidify our cat-like selfishness,
But as a reminder to remain for all of our nine lives.

Many would call me crazy,
Counting stairs and the amount of times the oven beeps to reassure myself I am not entering a deranged state of mind.
But she counts the stairs
So I can step comfortably through each day.

My lover.