The Truth About Love

There’s a dresser next to her bed. It looks a little like love.
Piled with unfolded, clean laundry.
Dirty tea cups have left permanent rings in the red paint.
Drawers hang open, overstuffed with panties, socks, and unopened mail.
A tangle of thin chains hangs gently down the side.
It’s intentional about showing me the entire contents.
The sex things are right on top.
We met in a brewery, at the bar. Tipsy, we left together.
I saw her room for the first time through a blistering hangover.
She was not in bed. Somewhere I heard a tea kettle.
The last ten years, our habits have become domestic.
I’ve seen her dresser every morning.
Sometimes desperate to see it closed, cleaned, and repainted.

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