pretzel logic.

Different pieces of my love rest in different places. 

A piece in fort and under the covers, looking at your stern face as you slept and breathed deeply. 
A piece in the gravel, in the morning next to your umbrella and my jacket on the ground. 
A piece in the back of the car, my head in your lap as you sang to me horribly and sweetly.
A piece in that dirty house, wearing your shirt, in the cold and everything smelling like bacon and effort. 
A piece in the kitchen when I made you dance and you did and I looked up at you and knew what I wanted. 


I tend to believe that if I try hard enough, if I say a lot of things maybe everything will stay, everything will be here.

Then there are the pieces that do. 

A piece on your shoulder, on your couch with a beer and a look that knows what I need, when I need it. 
A piece on the rock, near the ocean, on the beach and the face that I've know as long as mine. 
A piece in a place that I don't want to be but there's pizza and a happy-saddness that comforts me. 


As for the largest piece, I should call it a chunk or a slice, that will probably be somewhere else tomorrow or the next or the next.