But his house is already in order.
It’s clean when I go there,
Shoes all lined up in a row,
The toilet bowl sparkles.
It’s not too clean, though.
There’s a four-month-old bottle of coffee creamer sitting in the fridge,
And a bunch of items to tinker with on his bedside table.
A drooly dog,
And a beer bong hangs from the chandelier.
What matters to me,
It’s my type of dirty.
Nothing sticky lurks on counters or floors,
Except maybe dishwater and fido’s fur.
There’s clutter that makes it feel like a home,
If home is where the heart is,
My heart is with him,
In his home.
Lying on his mattress on the floor,
Fighting back the words “I love you”
Harder than ever before.
And I’ve never wanted to listen to anyone snore,
But he does it so gently.
The same way his lips meet mine.
Yet there’s something so feverish in his embrace,
I do not know where to draw the line.
I never thought I liked dirty,
I never thought I liked clean.
His house is somewhere in between...
My kind of dirty,
My kind of clean.