Reading over text notes of biology,
or psychology,
or whatever it is that I’m studying,
the definitions come out almost indefinitely when I hear the key word.
As if my brain automatically attaches
the word to its definition.
When I first saw the grin spread across your face,
when you laughed at how I stumbled upon my words,
I felt something so captivatingly strong,
that I swear I forgot how to breathe.

A body movement so simple that it’s done involuntarily.
Over the past year that we’ve known each other,
I expected my heart to become accustomed to the way
that the blue in your eyes looks when you smile.
Yet last night,
I found myself drawing the crinkles next to your eyes,
onto the flesh of my thigh,
while I was falling asleep.
I woke up the next day with the image
imprinted
into my skin.
Reading over our texts about friends,
or family,
or whatever it is that we were talking about,
the definition of love comes out hearing you speak.
As if my brain automatically attaches
the word content
to you.