Love is a Tiny Apartment

Love is a tiny apartment. You wash your clothes in the sink. Wash your hair in the sink. Brush your teeth in the sink. You wake up and see your feet. It touches the wall. You curl your toes as if it’s enough to make you feel that the room is not so small. After all.

There he is. By the kitchen counter, reading the paper. “Eeeeeeeeeeee!”, yells the kettle. You turn off the burner and stepped on his foot. He looked at you. You bothered not explain. There’s no use. He already knows. There’s not enough space.

But you make do because you have to live. One box on top of the other. Every hollow is a place to occupy. Every corner belongs to you, to him. Every hollow, every corner is a common ground. A shared latitude. And there will come a point where every space is owned. Then you will realize that you only have each other and that each other is not a bad thing to have. After all.

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