Poems About Love

You didn't bring flowers. You brought takeout and the correct opinion about the show I was watching.

The moon has heard every confession ever whispered from a bedroom window.

I'm not going to be cool about this. I've tried.

There's a word for the way your coffee cup still sits on the second shelf where no one else would put it—

This morning you stood at the mirror and cursed your hair with a creativity

My hands still set the table for two. Not every night—just Thursdays, when my hands forget

He doesn't know I keep a list. Not on paper—in the body, in the part that doesn't forget.

I've started keeping Saturdays the way some people keep a journal— every detail logged,

We don't say I love you anymore. We say: your phone is at eleven percent. We say: I picked up the thing

She does this thing with bobby pins— holds three between her lips like small dark fish

There is a jacket on my chair that doesn't belong to me, and this is how you know

I mean the way he folds the map even though the phone knows where we are. I mean the scar above his eyebrow