Ode to the center of my universe

3333. 
Every three or two days, or sometimes one, I come to you. 
Fill my stomach with rice and chicken, my head with caffeine and words. 
A universe needs a constant and you are mine. 
There is a quiet. Understanding, mutual, I like to think, 
a transaction repeated into ritual, almost into law. 

1980. 
Again and again. If it’s December, or I stayed long in a busy time, 
sometimes I deviate above. But never far. Most often, 
when you speak I cannot understand. The interchange of words 
is more or less the same regardless. More of it is in the little things.
A gesture to my place. Wrinkling laugh lines. Retraced steps.

If variety is the spice of life, 
consistency is its carbs.