Love, or Something Near Enough

I think I love you,
or something quite like it.
Every thought of you is like
a fireplace, a cup of tea, my favorite book,
not a dance just before midnight
when the dress turns to rags,
and all is left in ruin,
but in an everyday sort of way.
I think I love you
or something near enough it
to think that I truly do.
Every line from you is like
a million happinesses exploding,
one by one or three by three,
surging into the center of me
and shooting into my farthest reaches.
I think I love you.
I really, truly love you.

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