The little things that she does,
And sees, and knows.

How I wake, bathe and leave;
Meals to remain unfinished.

How I take my tea: with biscuits plenty,
No sugar, a mug at least.

How I carelessly lose things and blame her;
Rummage through my desk to find them.. later.

How I hate lipstick and things around my neck,
And weddings, Playing my Part in Things;
How I can almost be manipulated into all of it,
With a few of her choice words and a degree of cajoling.

How I take my salad, generously laden with cucumber and a slice of onion;
And drink coffee only when I have to stay awake.

How I don’t like an ounce of noise on Sunday nights,
And that I barely eat on Monday mornings.

How I like her cooking, her experiments with food,
And secret gastronomic pursuits that only we understood.

How I stayed for her,
And then again.

How she stayed for me,
And awoke in the middle of the night to make sure I didn’t not sleep.

How I never tell her about marks, grade points and things such,
But like to see the rage rise to her temples when she chances upon them from sources other.

How I like reading, and the door to my room closed;
And drinking milk after dinner, cold without ice.

The little things that she did,
And saw, and knew.
I now take notice,
When it matters not.

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