Toothpaste

Morning chill hasn’t vacated your bones, and there is toothpaste in your hair, but you don’t care, because you’re in love.  You’re in love with the one who holds the toothbrush while you squeeze out that last bit.  Can it be called the dregs when it remains stubbornly trapped in a squeeze tube?  You’ve got a partner in crime and in finessing toothpaste, and isn’t it just so delightfully prosaic you don’t even remember the tequila nights deriding love for being so domestic.

Don’t hang up your be-ribboned heels.  Don’t trade in that sleek chariot.  Trading toothpaste duties shows you’re in it for the long haul, but that glitzy romance makes the Love-O-Meter lights, camera, action.  Maybe just the lights, but hey, the camera and action are fun, too.

Whitening and bacteria-killing foam clings to your hair.  You have never been as lovely as you are at this moment.  Tomorrow, you will be beautiful, for the sun will shine on your sophistication, but today?  You glow because you’re in love.

Abandoned for the moment while author searches for toothpaste love, glitzy adoration, and warm socks.

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