Love is the whoosh of a dishwasher filled uncomfortably to the brim,
only to be emptied days later in a hurried, not-into-details way,
which results in dinner and salad forks crowding together in one section,
and mixing bowls fighting storage containers for cabinet space,
even though each has its own home.
Love is the glass of water filled on my nightstand,
refilled nightly only to be emptied each morning and then filled again,
over and over: a cycle that never tires.
Love is a shiny granite counter-top that reflects the lights above,
an empty stainless steel large farm sink with enough sheen
that you’ll mistake it for a mirror.
Love is easy to spot in this mid-century house.
