Perhaps it's the way I might see myself cooking us dinner,
despite never having been the sort who'd cook.
Or perhaps the way I like being up before the sun,
and breakfasting with you.
Possibly the way I feel like I actually want to put down work,
Theatre-related work at that (which is unheard of) to spend time.
Or maybe the way I can sit with you, and not have to do anything,
Anything at all.
Surely, it must be the way I slip into sleep against you;
My body against the length of yours, our fingers knitted.
And if it wasn't then it must be how you press your nose to mine sometimes,
Or how you hold out your hand to me,
Or how you say hello when you answer your cell.
It could be how you text to say you'll be home soon-
Complete with a pretty picture to smile at.
Or the way it feels, knowing that you are,
That you're just a bit away from home.
And still, if it weren't,
if it weren't any of it in the least,
it must be how you come home, covered in work,
And manage the most beautifully tired smile I've ever seen
in all my life.