You say my name with
that weird drawn out drawling 'a'
and incorrect intonation
but I find affection in your
recurrent mistake
and I love you for it.

You look at me with a mischievous
smirk,
corners of your mouth turned up at different angles,
not exactly Cheshire but still somewhat
eerie and *******
and every time, I give into bubbling laughter.

The way you touched me:
as if every ridge on your finger
-your entire identity-
was capturing the dimensions, curvature of my frame,
the detail
(every beauty spot, every dip, every scar)
only to have you look at me
furrowed
bewildered brow
to ask whether we'd always be this
Happy.

I guess not.