The Danger I Want

He'll be the kind of man who learns

that when I say "rest in peace" before bed,

I just forgot the words good night

and panicked straight into a eulogy.

He won't even question it.

He'll just say it back —

"rest in peace, you whackadoo" —

and that'll be the most romantic sentence

anyone's ever said to me.

He'll stand beside me, six-foot-something,

and I'll tell him, completely straight-faced,

that I'm six foot on the inside where it counts,

and he won't laugh at that,

he'll laugh because of it,

because I've said something both insane and true

though I remain 5’3” of pure nonsense.

He'll call just to hear me say “hello.”

No reason. No update on the world.

Just "hey, what are you doing,"

already smiling before I've said anything silly,

already prepared for silliness

the second it arrives, because it's me,

and that’s enough.

I'll wear his sweatshirt because I forgot my jacket,

again, always, it's our tradition now,

sleeves swallowing my hands,

and it smells like him–like Ivory soap,

the same brand in my shower.

In crowded rooms,

his hand will find mine first.

this is her — no joke behind it,

no rewritten version of me.

This is what I'm holding out for —

not perfect, not easy,

but someone who hears whackadoo

and thinks yes, obviously, mine.

For now, I stay 5'3"

with a six-foot opinion of myself,

deciding, before I meet him:

that this is the only danger I want —

someone who laughs in the same direction as me,

chooses me on ordinary days

and stays when the humor goes quiet.