Comfortable

We aren't an elegant tapestry depicting two virginal lovers, Their bodies hand-weaved from only the finest silken threads, Untouchable, even by time itself. We are a tattered blanket-- Well loved, Colors beginning to fade, Mended seams and shredded edges. Maybe not the prettiest object, but warm in the coldest nights. We aren't the gorgeous Picasso or Monet pieces, Hanging in gilded frames in a stark white room, Surrounded by chic velvet ropes, Shielding the artists delicate brushtrokes from inferior fingers and dirtied palms. We are the work of a child, fingerpaints and crayons surpassing the boundaries, A name haphazardly scribbled in the bottom corner, But filled with care, passion, and pride, Hung on the very front of the fridge for all to behold. We aren't a decadent love song, Painting ourselves as the perfect pairing for all to admire, A Top 20 hit that millions of teen girls will sway to in the arms of a young man, Hoping that by living in our melody for all four minutes will sprinkle those words of love upon her. We are meaningless chit chat, Raised voices fueled by irritation, and misplaced moments of silence, Places where words failed to come to fruition on my lips and you remained silent. We aren't the couple in blockbuster movies, The ones hormonal women fall to pieces over as they gnaw on a decadent chocalate bar, As the beautiful couple filled with boundless love for each other gnaw on each other's lips, Naturally in the rain on a majestic beach scene, The ocean breeze blowing hair from the womans face as sea water laces between bare toes. We are the romantic comedy that never made it to the silver screen, Where two people, majorly flawed, can fall for each other, Where not every kiss begins with "K" And not every intimate word is a love sonnet. I wouldn't say we're perfect, Far from it. But we're comfortable.