Take your time, love, we warm like old engines. There may be salt on the ground before we float by but my god you are the most awe-inspiring songs this old radio ever heard. There are five things I want to ask you in your sleep: were your parents the kind who kept your cars clean, so you grew up with a heart like an automatic answering machine? Does the word forever make you angry ’cause no one means it as hard as you? Did you know I can’t trade you in, my face is stuck like this, mama always said I’d meet the right one someday, and mama always said you’d meet a nice one, I just don’t think they knew we’d be selling looking glasses door to door. Is it weird I don’t need to make myself seem better than I am around you, I know it’s a task to fail, I never felt more true than in front of you, and is it weird that it’s not weird to me like flexing my fingers or running into walls or exhaling at night? This is not a love poem, it’s a poem about sleep paralysis and aftermath; this is not a love poem, it’s a Top 40s hit stuck in my head today; this is not a love poem, it’s the first and last conversation of my day being with you; this might be a love poem, but not like that; this is not like that, but I never need to say it, we both know it like laugh tracks; I am so glad we are both not like that, rumor steel mill workers instead truth tellers with no helmets or kneepads when I take a fall; I am so glad you are not like that, and I knew, and I didn’t listen to siren calls; I am so glad that you knew we were meant to be right where we are. We will remember to look back and appreciate what we do today. Pinky swear.