February 14th, 2019

by Abigail Rudibaugh

I don’t need dinner with steak,
more pearls to keep tucked away,
or a dozen red roses to know I’m loved.

Who decided on twelve anyway?
Why not a bundle of seven
to make it interesting
so I can ask what it means,
and you can say, “because I love you
all seven days of each week.”
Or how about a rose
for the number of times
you had to reach for my hand
just yesterday to reassure
me in my whirling
you are my safe place.

This morning there isn’t pressure
besides the tea party we throw
for our girls this breakfast.
You refill my coffee,
clear the dishes, and then
read our daughters’ valentines
while I write this love poem 
you don’t even know about yet.

I don’t need all the fancy
in all its bright loud lights
to scream what I hear in
calm whispers all morning.
This comfort we made
is loving me just right.

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