I do not love you like the ocean,
I’m much to scared of drowning.
Instead I love you like a battered paperback,
small enough to pocket
on walks from dorm rooms to lecture halls.
I love like the blanket my housemate bought me,
too pink to be polite
but a soft cucoon against my skin
warm on cold winter nights.
I love you like anything that can be forgotten
tucked away or to one side,
but hangs around in the quiet moments
still very much alive.
I do not love you like life itself,
but I love you a little like breath.
In the same way that I do not think about it,
in the same way that to not would be nonsense
in the same way that I don’t know how to stop
without the pressure in my chest building
to a point where I think I might shatter me pieces.
I suppose I love you a little like breathing.
I do not love you like the ocean though.
With you I have never been afraid of drowning.