When I fall in love, it comes out screaming.
You say that you’re no good for me,
and I smile and kiss you anyway.
You tell me I should leave in a voice like whiskey
and I murmur of course, of course
as you teach me things I never knew
about my seventeen-year-old skeleton
and the muscles that strap it down.
When you light up a cigarette,
you warn me to never smoke.
It kills your lungs, but you fall in love.
I’m not lying, then, when I say
that you are my most beautiful habit.