The Romance of Routine

You made the coffee.

Every morning,

before my alarm knew I was awake.

Two sugars,

a splash of cream,

and a silence that felt like devotion.

You didn’t say “I love you” every day.

But I tasted it in the way

you stirred,

waited,

placed the mug by my side

without asking.

Some mornings,

we didn’t speak.

And still,

it felt like poetry.

Love, it turns out,

isn’t always the fireworks.

It’s in the folding of laundry

without being asked.

It’s in warm leftovers

labeled with my name.

It’s in your hand reaching for mine

during the credits.

Not because you had to.

But because you wanted to.

Years passed.

So did some sparks.

But not the fire.

That stayed low, steady,

beneath the mundane.

The dishes.

The grocery lists.

The familiar footsteps

down a shared hallway.

I used to think love was loud.

Now I know—

it's often just reliable.

And that

is its own kind of romance.