If we move in together, my heart is still yours,
but that doesn’t mean all my belongings have to be.
Privacy is the beetle’s husk, the moon’s rind, a tulip’s pollen,
my own skin. Our two halves of a home may touch and coalesce,
but when I need my space, let me have it,
stars, black holes, dark energy and all.
Jellyfish display their spineless bodies for all to see
beneath a clear membrane, though if we move in together,
I’ll most likely want to be the opposite.
Love, love is the umbilical cord that tethers two people together,
and I will never slash ours, just tug a little bit on my end
when I need some quiet time alone.
I’ll still be waiting on the other side with open arms
whenever you feel like joining me.
And if we move in together, we can love and live jointly,
in one bed, under one roof, and you will always be
my “one and only,” but sometimes halves
still need to be halves for just a little while
every now and then.