I want to hold your hand.
your fingers threaded in mine,
or hands cupped,
either way,
cells touching;
The valleys of my fingerprints
accenting the mountains in yours.

I want to hold your hand
in winter,
to take off your gloves,
and mine,
and warm up your thumbs
with my slender bones
under wine colored nails.

I want to hold your hand
with each digit painted
different shades of blue,
so when your hand meets
the red running down my knuckles,
we make the perfect shade
of violet.

I want to hold your hand
when we’re eighty,
skins of protruding veins,
blinking the dust
from old eyes,
laughing from tired lungs,
because we made it.

I crave the taste
of icy air,
of snowcapped mountains,
and rugged rock
beneath my feet.

To have wildflowers
sprout
from my fingertips,
my tongue
rich
in the language
of flowing rivers,

So that my eyes
will become
parts of constellations
with lashes
of evergreen needles,

My skin of clay,
heart of earth,
and of fire,
with thoughts
made up of
stardust
so they can touch
the moon.

Bathtubs
don't encompass
the flicks of your upturned mouth,
or the etchings of chapped lips
that cut your tongue
when you speak.

Your milky figure
pours into the aquamarine warmth below.
The lavender colored bubbles
Pop
in eighth notes and song lyrics
which bounce off the shower curtain
to the rug,
and back.

The water overflows
its porcelain prison
to compensate for the greatness
in your voice
and gets hotter
with each and every breath
you release
from your fire-filled lungs.

It overruns the bathroom,
and floods the hall with each blink of your eye,
each wisp of your lashes,
the floorboards soaking in every freckle
until every surface of mine
is covered in every cell of you.

Your impatience is marked
by dog-eared pages,
of unfinished novels,
never to be revisited.

It speaks volumes
and song changes during our car rides,
again, and again,
…and again.

It’s your forgetfulness;
the socks under my bed,
the half-drunk soda,
and uncapped glue.

It’s the way
you hurry me into bed at night,
and refuse to let me leave
when the sun’s rays peak through dusty blinds.

It’s your lingering touch,
your constant desire for what’s to come,
for your surprises to be revealed,
your wit to be matched,
and the look on my face,
as I wait to see what’s next.

It started with a toothbrush;
that now resides in my drawer,
adjacent to my own,
just left of my face wash.

From there, you’ve continuously trickled into my life
bit by bit,
inch by inch,
forgotten sock by forgotten sock,

So that now you’ve left yourself everywhere.
My sheets carry your scent.
I sweep up your laughter from the floor tiles,
and wipe your smile from my mirror.

You’ve encompassed my thoughts
with your dark features and pale skin.
Your voice glides around my jawline,
past your freckles that reside now on my neck.

The quirks I can’t stand, I’m beginning to crave.
Every knuckle crack,
and neck twist,
even the annoying way you do each twice.

My sheets are constantly askew,
and keep the air cold,
and I leave things scattered
so it feels like you’ve never left.

Your dust has settled in my room,
but I refuse to clean it
because the dissonance you create,
is the harmony I desperately need.

The light in your eyes
reflects the laughter
that bursts forth from your soul,
and echoes
through muggy night air.

It traverses
across the room,
bouncing off the glints
of teeth
from constant conversations
of strangers.

As their smiles turn to
smirks,
and bright eyes
grow heavy
with slumber and drink,
your laughter still reverberates

Off the curves of their
hips,
and the tips
of their tongues,
as your lips touch
to meet someone else’s.