No Assembly Required (The Remix)
Maybe you won’t be a fixer-upper.
No “trauma but make it flirty.”
No Googling your symptoms after dates.
Just a woman with a therapist and a spare toothbrush in case I stay over without asking.
Maybe you’ll keep your passport in the same drawer as your birth control.
Maybe you’ll help me plan reckless trips: to Ireland in the rain, to Mexico for cheap veneers because I want big, expensive teeth and a selfie in Tulum to match.
Maybe you’ll say yes to Machu Picchu, to Easter Island, to whatever country I’m obsessed with this month.
Maybe you’ll say yes to every last-minute flight I send you, and kiss me under customs signage like we didn’t just argue over duty-free Toblerones.
Maybe you’ll wear a harness better than me, but let me take the lead anyway.
Maybe you’ll leave bruises in the shape of my ambition.
Maybe we’ll make out in the airplane bathroom and pretend the turbulence is our fault.
Maybe you’ll install Co-Star instead of Snapchat because I want to stalk your transits, not your selfie.
Maybe we’ll brush each other’s hair after skinny dipping in a glacial lagoon because we said we were going to be spontaneous this year.
Maybe you’ll roll your eyes when I say I want to get certified in scuba diving because I have a hunch that we’re going to fall in love somewhere very wet.
Maybe we’ll get kicked out of a museum in Florence for laughing too hard at a crucifix that looked a little too… well, you saw it too.
Maybe you’ll kiss me in a bookstore then whisper something filthy right next to the poetry section so now Neruda is forever ruined.
Maybe you’ll meet my family and win them over with one dazzling laugh, then pull me into the coat closet after dessert to make me forget why I said I don’t like them.
Maybe you’ll know that I’m exhausted after 16-hour shifts and let me sob quietly into your hoodie while you door-dash Pad Thai and stroke my back like it’s sacred.
Maybe you’ll beat me at pickleball but still let me tackle you afterward.
Maybe you’ll book the damn tattoo appointment in Amsterdam after I chicken out.
Maybe we’ll end up in Santorini making out on a scooter while locals scream about safety and we pretend we don’t hear them.
Maybe you’ll call my poems ridiculous — but quote them back to me at the worst possible time.
Like during sex.
Or in line at customs.
Maybe you’ll be the kind of woman who brings her whole self to the table —not just the wounded parts, but the weird ones too.
The impulsive travel planner.
The competitive board game sore loser.
The lover who can throw a punchline as hard as she throws a left hook at the gym.
Maybe I’ll finally listen to my therapist.
Maybe I’ll stop doing charity work with my heart.
Maybe you won’t be a project.
Just a miracle.
Wrapped in sunburn and sarcasm.
Wearing my hoodie.
Kissing me like it’s illegal in Utah.