I used to think that
if his hand was up my shirt
and we liked the same music
we might be in love
That love was something shared
in the dark hours of the morning
between the navy sheets of his
best friend's older brother's bed
where he'd tell me
I was a good kisser
and in the awkwardness of day
I'd remove all evidence of our presence
there, plucking long blond hairs
from the pillow cases
That was love then
Now I know that love
is something passed from
your honey browns
to my denim blues
and my head fitting perfectly
beneath your collarbone
I know that it's my fingers
entangled in your dark curls
and holding you other hand
when you drive my car
I know it's the fact that
you accept my faults
praise my silliness
and that you prefer me
to my own body
This is love now
