written 15 February 2026
Our boyfriend smells of cardamom and carraway and cognac,
tastes like lemon and sugar and rum,
and feels like static electricity when he touches me,
and you fear he's all I need.
I see your insecurities, though you try your best to hide them,
afraid to admit that you need my reassurance;
that when he flirts with me in that signature drawl,
you find your own gruff voice discordant;
that when he shrugs off his jacket to reveal his broad shoulders,
your own tense in response;
that when he runs his long fingers down my back,
you can't help but overthink your calluses.
You just don't see the beauty in your own titanium eyes,
just tiredness and stress where his silver is effervescent,
and sometimes, you just aren't sure we really need you.
But honey, I love your gravelly morning voice,
your callous hands, your sleepy scruff,
the notes of cherry and whiskey on your tongue,
the scent of mahogany and bergamot that lingers
on your soft silk sheets and striped sweaters.
Our boyfriend might be a sultry jazz solo, sweetie,
but you are the steadfast bassline
that keeps us all securely grounded.
Darling, I need you as much as you need me.
In this relationship, there is no third, just three.