I’m not sure if I will ever love you
but I am sure
that I will grow to love
the way you lean far over whatever
it is that you’re reading
and the way your green eyes look
when the sun is in them
and how they melt into something soft and comfortable
when they look up at me
and I will grow to love
your nervous hands
long, slender fingers scuttle through hair
callused and broken
unearthing solace from my cold skin
and I will grow to love
the tightness in my chest
the balance you give
and take away
the promises you don’t quite make

maybe it is me.
I love the songs and the chairs and the shoes
that have retired
a stable wave of comfort they give
and I take and take and love
maybe I love too easily
the things that are always there

I’m not sure if I will ever love you
but I am sure that I will grow to
love
your ordinary jokes
your bored grumbles
your routine flattery
your rustled there-ness
I am sure
because I already do.