You toss superlatives at me
like a short order cook
flings eggs at a griddle
I love you more than any man has loved a woman.
A ring, a daughter's name, a retirement plan.
I love you the max.
You are
the water bottle I take to work
the jars of canned fish hiding in the cupboard
the baking supplies unused on the kitchen table
the night that falls
the patch of green that joins the sidewalk to the street
the bedspread I crawl under
alone and waiting when I can't sleep.
You are for me.
You are. You can't not be.