It's a niche nice.

It's the sizzling, spitting bacon on the pan,

the aroma wafting up the stairs, tickling my nose

before my eyes have dared to open.

It's the smell of your skin as I kiss your cheek

that always holds the scentless, clean soap.

It's the creamy hardwood floors you sawed yourself,

the jagged tiles laid to save my fingers,

the art you hung to house my thoughts

and how you translate the junk into language.

It's the soft embrace, that eases aches.

It’s the pearl you saved until I savored it.

It's the turkey sandwich, pressed with a cookie-cutter leaf,

or the kiss on my brow when I need it the most.

It’s the laughter spilling into stemless wine glasses

mixing with sweet tears and dry Cabernet.

It’s the sweater you loved and demanded I get

that quickly became the only one I wear.

It's in the hand-sewn clothes

sleepless nights

countless competitions

wretched papers

tear-stained shoulders.

It’s the showing up

and wanting to be there.

It’s you.