Love was a lazy morning after a busy night,
swapping stories over $1 pizza and gelato,
Clos Rougeard before coffee.
Love was going to see every Pixar movie in theaters,
letting you win the round of mini golf,
forcing me to bowl without bumpers on my 24th birthday.
Love was COS Cerasuolo in plastic cups and burgers on the terrace,
pregaming dinner with champagne and a cheese plate,
taking dessert to-go a la John Legend and Chrissy Teigen.
Love was Federal Donuts’ fried chicken for breakfast two days in a row,
buying all the Savart in that wine shop in Portland,
and somehow hiding it from me so every bottle was a surprise.
Love was leaving the island for pizza in the middle of the day,
holding me close even in an empty train car,
chases up the escalator.
Love was a surprise passing on the street,
throwing a bridge over people we passed when we held hands,
the profane term of endearment we adopted.
Love was in the drunk dials,
and the fights,
and the tears,
and the make-ups,
and the break-ups.
Love was there, right?
In the little things?
Even at the end?
Somehow the little things are the hardest to let go.