I adore the way you shuffle through the kitchen
in scuffed slippers that squeal on the tiled floor,
your hair a static storm, cheeks pinched by fluorescent light,
as you hum off-key tunes about next week’s laundry.

I treasure the morning breath that greets me like old fish,
your teeth embroidered with last night’s peanut crumbs,
the perfumed spritz of stale coffee clinging to your shirt
while you mumble apologies between absent chews.

I marvel at your heartbeat’s erratic drum in bed,
a nasal symphony that rattles the mattress springs,
your gaze fixed not on me but on the glow of your phone,
as you swipe through memes and grimace at every pun.

Yet, in every ungraceful snort and awkward glance,
I find a crooked comfort only you could bring—
for love need not sparkle with star-kissed oaths:
I’m hopelessly, unromantically yours.