She’s a soft-spoken tea drinker with a
work desk littered with loose leaf.
He can be found with his tongue
wagging in piping hot coffee mugs.
She stays up through all hours of night,
waving off the sun’s rays when it rises.
He’s on his grandfather’s sleep schedule,
welcoming the light while he stretches.
Her smallish ears hold jewelry and her
nose is pierced and looped through.
His beard has the tendency to blow back
even in the most timid of wind gusts.
Her words along with her steps
seem thought out and graceful.
He’s walking as if the street is moving,
talking as if he’s forgotten how.
Her shadow seems like it’s always
dancing upon cobblestone streets.
He can’t help but stare at the way
her body under her dress moves.
She is in love with the sides of
mountains and pine needles and air.
He sings muted songs about
how playful her hands can be.
It’s no secret that this ‘she’
The ‘he’ is I, and I’m clumsy
even typing this about you.
You must know that you hold
the fate of a man within
those alligator-green eyes and
every time you blink,
I want to reach out to make sure
you are still there
when they open.