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Love is not a Competitive Sport

He walks out the door to earn our daily bread,
and somehow I’ve lost the pants he puts on every morning
in the dark
to walk the
anxious dog.
He stops to check our wine supply—
it’s Valentine’s tonight—
and I glance at the dry cleaning basket
overflowing
by the door,
unkempt.
He does so much for me
I struggle to keep up.
I know, I know—love is not a competitive sport.
But my heart yearns to do a better job
of telling him
I love you.

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