red wine and tampons

remember that night we had red wine?

i asked if i could take your tampon out.

you looked at me like i was

some sick pervert you’d somehow fallen in love with—

i am.

“okay, maybe after another glass of red wine.”

we poured. we sipped.

fast forward to you sitting on the toilet,

me acting like some sort of surgeon,

rolling up my sleeves,

prepping for the strangest procedure of my life.

at that moment,

i knew i wanted to marry you.

not because of the absurdity,

it wasn’t absurd at all.

it was, us?

raw, weird, and full of trust

in a way no one else could ever understand.

but more than that,

i knew i didn’t want you

to marry anyone else but me.

because who else would love you like this?