A poem

My new partner doesn’t read my poetry.
Says, they want to respect my privacy
it’s strange to say, that makes me happy, that
my diary is publicly available to read, online
for voyers a full catalog of love letters,
but this kid, they’re not nosey
knows me already so well
that when I confessed to always staying
awake a little longer just to be sure
they’re comfortable enough to start snoring
ever since that one night they confessed
they don’t normally like sharing a bed,
they laughed,
says, they know I’m a huge sap.
So then I tells them,
a few nights ago I woke up
with their snoring arm around me
and I laid there a moment writing poetry
behind the smile I was hiding in the pillow
about the weight of the arm and how warm
and safe I felt for the first time in so long,

and all of those words
sat waiting for the right moment
and maybe it wasn’t the right moment
when I said it
with all the beer and being out
so far past bed time, but kid
I’ve got a lot of feelings.

Forgive me now
for writing a hundred versions
of the same poem you’ll never read
that I will read on raised platforms
to groups of strangers staring at me
who know nothing
of the sweetness in your voice
when you says all these soft affirmations
after making your bed in the morning
or picking up coffee
I want them to know.

I don’t even make my own bed at home,
but it’s my favorite part after spending the night
ever since that first morning this kid
got out of the shower before I was done
tucking in the edges they says, awe,
and I blushed.
My face still feels warm.

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