I handed you a black piece of fabric,
And you joked about it being an old-fashioned proposal.
This would be Medieval times:
I would hand you a piece of my sleeve
As a declaration of my love.
I would be a maiden,
And you would be a knight.
(You would have brought my fabric into battle for good luck.)
You accepted my accidental proposal
And we had a good laugh about it.

You lost the fabric.

*You kept me.

You are arms:
Holding me on the beach,
Playing your guitar,
Standing just outside my reach,
Dancing at the bar.

You are eyes:
Underneath a Batman face.
Reading a new line.
Just staring into blackened space,
Or staring into mine.

You are lips:
Kissing softly on my neck.
Singing with the band.
Grazing my cheek with a peck.
Warming my cold hand.

You are feet, and you are fingers.
You are a well-worn palm that lingers.
A neck, a head, a back, a nose,
Calves, knuckles, ankles, toes.

You are a heart:
Ticking, slowly, like a clock.
Drumming in your chest.
Thumping, loudly, like a knock.
Loving me the best.