WYKYK

I know when I sing along to Matt Maeson in the car
with you next to me and I don’t hold back, 
don’t use my “shy” singing voice. 

I know when you rant about how Seth Rogen
is raffling off time to talk ceramics and smoke weed
with him, how you’d apply if it were just ceramics talk. 

I know when you talk about your dream of one day
building your own house and your face lights up
when we drive by a house we both like. 

I know when I equate organized religion to cults—
an opinion I typically keep to myself—
and you agree without question. 

I know when we talk of our shared dreams
to one day make a living off our art:
your ceramics, my writing. 

I know when you say you “don’t need a kid”
and I sigh in relief after years of pressure
from an ex and his family to have children

I could never see myself happily raising. 
How I wish to date someone without the pretense 
of a family, of stereotypical American Dreams.

I know now what my therapist meant when 
she said I needed to share values with someone. 
But I don’t know how to make you understand all of this.