I took off your shirt, and the
golden chain around your neck that
bore the mark of Christ.

I
It’s four in the morning;
I’m eighteen years old -
I’m wondering what it is to love.
I spend half my days
devouring Aristotle, and
the other half in your arms.

II
The tremor of your laughter;
You rest your head
against my shoulder -
My heart goes "oh" -
and flutters.

III
It’s warm under the covers;
a movie plays as you
trace your fingers
across my skin.

IV
Three nights ago, we danced in a matching dress and tie to a
song I can’t remember because I was distracted by your
dimly-lit face, an
inch away from mine, and your
lips, and the nervous, excited feeling
welling up inside my chest.

V
It’s four in the morning;
I’m eighteen years old -
I love you.

You dozed off next to me last evening,
and I gazed with wonder at a face
so often marked by the weight of
twenty years of sadness and abuse -
a face that, in that moment, held
a slight smile resting beneath
fluttering whisps of pastel-brown eyelashes curling up toward
frosted windows hidden by
blinds drawn close to
shut out the
eyes of a
world
that, in that moment,
was not mine, because
my world was there in that
quiet room, amongst the
continuous hum of a radiator and the
rise and fall of a fragile chest
I promised to protect.