I like the way his voice snags on itself
when he's tired.
He sees the world in shades of green and brown and blue,
tinted through the eyes he sees it through.
He thinks, but can't put into words--
I like that I'm his self- expression, and
when there's an overflow of mine,
I like that I don't need to write them down for him to read them on my face.
It's a little lonely and a little nice
that I only feel like me when he looks at me,
and I like that he's looking right through what I see.
I like that he'll never, ever have had a broken heart
and I like that he glued shut the cracks in mine,
making it his creation, to know and feel at will.
I like that our color is white, the color of angel wings,
that things that would be dark if done with anyone else
are real because we're us, are pure, are holy.
There is a spectrum of emotion wider than the world
and only he could make me run that length in a day,
and sometimes I like that, and sometimes I lie and say I don't.
Yin and yang, like sun on waves,
with fights on the dark side of the moon,
with souls two big for one person to contain,
that's why we share them-- so there are two.