I felt at home with you in your empty apartment,
where your mother called me “darling” and “honey” for vacuuming,
and I sat on the floor in the middle of your living room,
imagining I had just bought my own place.
I listen as you furnish the rest of your life out loud to me.
I say we should build safe houses around each other
and call it home.

Now this is where I tell you,
your kisses are like warm honey.
And I don’t even know what that tastes like,
but I swear that is the right simile.
You are made from poetry.
You are tightropes
Overhead, knotted together.
You are the netting beneath the act.
Somehow you balanced me when all I ever felt like I was doing
was crashing into you.
I say ‘be prepared to be tackled when I am happy’
because you are like throwing the front door of my house open,
before sprinting into my yard to peer at the first flowers of spring growing.
My heart slows down to a jog recovery when you’re around.

So I tell you,
your kisses are like foggy breath in the winter.
They’re the frost on my dad’s car in the morning.
Frost like the dusting on my bangs when I was little
and walked into elementary school with wet curly hair.

I tell you,
your kisses are like going on a plane for the first time,
but also like getting off at the airport in your hometown.
Sure, you enjoyed the flight.
But you’re happy to be home.