It is the half-sleep murmurs
It is the bad bracing the good,
Like shaking newborn legs that hold up life,
It is your crooked smiles,
And half-smiles during sleep,
It is your safety,
It is the rose branded upon your skin,
Burnt love like rotting flowers,
It is your old-man rants about trains and weather
"Its fucking raining again" or "Didn't hear the bloody alarm"
It is these things that people hate in you
That I find charming or endearing or something like that.
It is flowers for when I'm sad,
But never my favourites (always buy one, get one free)
But you don't realise and I don't care,
And I hate to admit it is car-rants and Arsenal-rants
That make me smile after I'm done pretending to listen.
It is and has to be our laughs,
And most of all your jokes, teases,
Comments about the people on TV,
That has others, especially my mother, in shock,
But never me, I'm cursed to laugh.
It is eyes, and lips, and body,
It is cliches about love,
It is all the moments,
That do not find themselves in poems.