He Doesn’t Like Buying Me Flowers

He doesn't like buying me flowers. Instead he'd rather paint them as the music hums in the back and I write him poems. We don't have to leave the house because he has so many stories that his minds an adventure and I sit back and listen trying not to stare. But if we do leave, we go far. We drive and kiss and kiss and drive and it's a game of "I'll pay" and "screw your feminist pride I want to help" and countless "I love you's". All my attempts fail and I end up staring but he doesn't care because he knows I'm so used to being alone. That he's the one real and stable thing I've had. His body is warm and his tattoos are endless; my eyes follow them connecting them to the spiral that is his life. At night the vinyls play on and on while he whispers and I giggle and I don't know how I'm so lucky. He says I'm the one thing he did right in life and I've learned to just nod pretending I understand. My nightmares aren't rare but they've lessened as he wraps me in his embrace.
I've learned that home isn't a place it's just where you feel safe and this is it.
We are it.