you’re soft. skin, voice, and soul. liquid gold runs through your veins—i can tell.

you’re solid. tattered, some. scarred, certainly. but you’ve learned your own power. “intimacy won’t kill you,” you like to say.

you’re obsessed with asking questions. are there limits? did you know worlds can be built with a kiss? what do you call a rabbit in a kilt?

you have bright, piercing eyes. they are the light at the end of this tunnel i’ve been wandering through.

you’re additive. you usher in. somehow, you never recoil.

you’re magical, or at least i don’t completely understand you. i never will. i never want to.

you have strong fingers.

your stomach is warm, your chest, warmer. i keep one hand on your chest to feel you pulse as you sleep.

you drive a purple mazda. her name’s sheila. you keep the hubcaps shiny.

you have white teeth. your cheeks are dusted with freckles. your eyebrows are dark and full. you smell like fall.

you’re a tree hugger. you rub leaves between your fingers, you once balanced a stick on the tip of your pointer.

you broke something that needed breaking.

you’re the only person in the world, some days. that, or you’re the only person not in the world, though you always come back home.

you’re better than me. and i strive. for you.