It's the way you pull off the pre-wrap,
and put it right back on again, moments later.
The way our fingers fit perfectly together:
molded, puzzle-pieced, latched.
The graze of your eyebrows
as you look up at me, as if just
checking to make sure I was still there.
How my stomach talks to you, beckons you lower,
the language only you understand.
It's every careful question, every looking out for number one.
You are number one. Every number:
it's how we are one, how I can't distinguish you from me.
It's how I don't want to tell the difference.
How you massage my arms when they're tired.
The offer to switch roles, to be my secretary.
The wows after kisses when we've both melted into each other.
It's the contented sighs I want to hear all the time.
The scholarness or the Scholarlarity. Purple skin and puking aside.
The way every goodbye lasts five or more times,
usually more, I don't want to see you go.
You are beautiful.
But it's also the way your neck is my perfect.
Slender, delicate, smelling just like you.
How your eyes brighten every time,
getting bluer still, entrancing me.
The way your smile fills my chest
but also fills the room with your laughter.
It's the gentle smile and tired, happy eyes I see
every time we are interlaced and comfortable.
It's the way every hug, since the beginning,
has fit: your niche, the smell of your hair,
your hands pulling me tight, never wanting to part.
It's the look in your eyes when the first goodbyes begin,
the pain that's there but also the love. And the hope.
How jeans can suddenly be the sexiest clothing item.
The way you redefine intimacy every time I'm with you.
How your freckles make me believe
that they really, truly are angel's kisses.
It's the way your hair shines, how it smells,
how it feels in my hands and lays around you.
It's the notch on your hip and on mine, the matching ones,
the handle that I love that's not a love handle at all.
It's everything you do and everything you are.
You are beautiful.