Intimacy is not fumbling around
with sweaty palms in the backseats
of cars or sneaking around
for a few stolen moments
in bed.
No,
intimacy is brushing your teeth together
after passing out on the floor
the night before,
making breakfast midday in my
mother’s kitchen
(you flipping crepes,
me scrambling eggs),
watching paranormal ghost
adventures
(trash TV)
on your couch at odd hours of the evening.

“This is love.”
You took my hand in yours
and caught me by surprise.
We hadn’t said a word since we sat
down to eat.
But you squeezed my hand once,
(a question),
and when I squeezed back
(an answer),
we sat in that familiar silence and watched
as smiles spilled ’cross our lips,
slow and steady,
and then all at once.