Open

We love with the windows open, darling—

not because the room is stuffy,

but because the night keeps knocking,

and we’re terribly bad at saying no.

Our hearts don’t march in single file.

They dance—barefoot, a bit tipsy—

borrowing warmth from passing bodies,

returning richer, flushed with stories.

Jealousy still visits, of course.

She’s a dramatic cow.

But we sit her down, pour her tea,

let her speak, then kiss her on the forehead

and send her on her way.

Joy is not diminished by division.

It multiplies—

like laughter echoing through a house

where every room is occupied

by someone you trust.

We come back to each other glowing,

scented with other lives,

saying you’ll never guess what happened,

and meaning thank you for letting me grow.

This isn’t a lack of devotion.

It’s an excess of it.

A confidence so supple

it doesn’t need to cage itself to feel safe.

So here’s to love without locks,

to vows written in pencil but kept in ink,

to choosing each other—again and again—

even while our hands are busy

holding the world.