Love

I don't remember where or or when or how I fell in love. If it was between the CD racks at Best Buy or the three-second intervals between radio songs, I don't know. It could have happened beneath the shadows of my ceiling, late at night, when you slept beside me and I listened to you breathe. It might have happened as my door creaked shut behind you, after you said goodbye, kissed me quickly, and left. Was it between the folds of my linen curtains? As they rustled in the winter wind while your fingers traced my ribs? It could have happened at half-time or between our first and second date or between Saturday night and Sunday morning. Maybe it happened in the blue glare of the television as we kissed in the hot, dark living room. How or when or where I fell in love, I do not know, but it happened. And it aches.