Syrup fingers

We had maple syrup on our pancakes for breakfast.
Rich and thick and gooey, and we ate it with our fingers
because the fork-box got caught under the cleaning stuff
and the laundry detergent leaked through two boxes, and
we didn't really want to wait for the dishwasher to finish.

But the pots and pans and bowls were fine; we ran those
last night before crashing on the frame-less mattress
(and we'll keep it that way so the cats won't claw into
the box springs again, like they did last summer).

So with our two spoons too large for the silverware box
we made pancakes in a freshly-washed pan, and
sat on the floor beside the newly assembled table
for which we still don't have chairs, and ate
with our fingers syrupy pancakes, sticky and sweet.

I say I'm getting grimy and icky and you say it's nice;
my hair clumps and sticks to my face; I laugh, but you say,
"You're beautiful, always beautiful" and then you pause,
blush and say, "I know that's corny. But I mean it."

And you're looking at me like the cat does when she's
just knocked over my glass of water by accident (not
on purpose; she's never guilty then). And it's funny because
if you'd tried to say it I'd have rolled my eyes, thinking
it was corny and dumb and you were trying too hard.

But sometimes you forget that things like that have
been said before. And when you say it like it's brand new, or
it forces its way out like a hay-fever sneeze, it's wonderful; and
when you forget, I hear the voice of love, and fall for you again.