Infinite Little Things

You didn't ruin my life or save it,

You just handed me small moments

like loose change you found in your pockets.

I remember the way you peel oranges,

spiraling the skin in one perfect ribbon

and hanging it on the rim of the sink.

I remember you singing the wrong lyrics

on purpose, just to see if I'd notice,

the chipped mug you always picked

even when the clean ones waited politely.

We had big nights, sure—

fireworks over the river, drunk declarations,

that one dramatic storm with the power out—

But my heart keeps replaying Tuesday afternoons,

you sorting laundry on the floor,

asking if the sky looked "hopeful or meh."

I don't have a photo of your hands

tying your shoes by the door,

Or the way you tapped the steering wheel

Exactly four times at every red light.

Those are the things my chest archived,

tiny, unimportant scenes that won't let go.

Maybe that's what love actually is:

not the trailer, but the background noise,

the popcorn salt on your fingers,

the quiet walk home after nothing special,

when the night folded itself around us

like it knew we might forget the date

but never the way it felt to just exist beside you.