The Summit

I didn't want you in the beginning — it was a bit of an arranged marriage.

"This is better than the alternative," the father of the bride said.

The thought of you felt like it may cost me, more than I had at the time.

I didn't think you were my type:

You were older.

Aloof.

Contained more personalities than I could manage,

And yet somehow a little bland.

But I needed somewhere to lay my head at night.

Someone to elevate me in an otherwise horizontal world.

And you were admittedly so fucking bright.

The years wore on and I had my dalliances —

Once with an even older work-in-progress,

And another time with a real fixer-upper — but there was a dog.

You let me color you the way I wanted,

View you through my rose-colored glasses,

And abuse your value with my artisanal ideas.

But time and time again,

I came back. You never made me explain myself.

You opened the door as thought it was

My first time walking through.

You never complained when I appeared

With more baggage than I left with.

You remained a stoic structure,

Even when I was pure chaos.

You let me cry on your dining room floor,

Cook in your kitchen,

Bathe in your bathtub,

And fuck in your bed.

Our relationship has withstood

The tests of time. For 18 years, you've been in the background, Allowing me to stay even when I paid you off.

Thank God I bought that apartment on the top floor.