Before we begin,
These are the things
I should tell you:

I am hot-blooded.
Passionate, yes, but
also in the winter,
I will gripe about how hot
and stifling the buildings are,
and surreptitiously open windows.

    I will go outside without my jacket.
    I will not wear a hat. I will probably catch my death.

I will not get up in the morning.
Any rational argument you make
as to why I really must get up now
will be met with indifference.
I will resist you.

I confess that I often
do not do the dishes
in a very timely manner.

    I am not troubled by the mouse
    emerging at midnight for the crumbs
    on the counter — we have
    useful symbiosis in this life.

I warn you:
Do not let me go into used bookstores.
Oh! you will think, it will be romantic
and a little European —
and afterwards we can sip espresso
outside some sidewalk café.

You will realize your folly,
struggling home with me,
dozens of old books on a cross-town bus.

If presented with your spare,
bare apartment, ikeafied with
white boxes of space,
I will not have the heart to tell you
that you had better be up to the task
of distracting me from that aesthetic void
whenever we spend the night.