You drove twenty minutes to pick me up from my apartment. Merged the wrong way into traffic and swore, bright smile, at the cars honking at us. Who cares. This life is strange, stranger every day. Here I am, shoes off, in your house. You have a laugh like the winter, creeps itself all the goddamn way into my bones. I’m fumbling with words and jokes, you’re in the kitchen with the tiny spoonfuls of sugar and a mug of tea for me. We share one with your name on it and I think about every single time your lips occupy the same spot that mine did only moments before.

It’s kind of like kissing, and I am laughing at your lips and my lips, how absurd it is that they are planted (like a stamp or a stray wish, perhaps) on the back of my hand. 

Who cares. We were smiling. You left early and your drunk roommate gave me more cups of tea, all of them with your name written, letter i dotted with a heart above it—not my handwriting, but sure, I’ll share the sentiment.