To the Boy I Love

You are not the poem I set out to write. You are the poem that wrote itself— sideways, surprising, with terrible spelling and the most honest last line I've ever read. My boyfriend, my person, my beautiful complication— you who leaves cabinets open like invitations to head injuries, who argues with GPS like it personally offended you. But also: you who texts "got home safe" without being asked. You who remembers the small things I say and forgets the big things I wish I hadn't. I love you not because you're perfect but because your imperfections are the exact shape of mine— two broken pieces that somehow fit. When I'm old I will remember this: not the grand gestures, not the dates, but the morning you made me coffee without asking and left it on the nightstand like a love letter written in caffeine.