I lay my feelings down like a tablecloth;
it sits between our still bodies,
and his fingers grasp at the edges -
twisting, twirling, and innocently tearing bits away.

And yes, he acts like a child,
but he is older, and wiser, and blissfully
unattractive to my age’s everyday gaze -
I am undoubtedly blinded.

He clears his throat to speak,
but he remains silent
while I remain in a whirlwind daydream,
worrying too often about reading between his unspoken lines.

His eyes, a stormy blue haze,
but all I see is the sun;
the entirety of my vision  in awe,
enchanted by a rainbow.

He smiles,
only half of his top teeth showing,
with warmth that shades my cheeks
and beckons me to mirror his dimpled features.

The overflowing effort
he puts into making me laugh
makes me realize how easy it is
to fall for him.

And there’s something captivating
about the way he giggles
when he steals popcorn,
the way his hand softly brushes my skin when he places a sticky note on my forehead.

The freckles on his arms,
like raindrops on the sidewalk
outside my window;
the flowers in my garden grow with their nourishment.

And for every imperfect label society slaps on his untucked shirt,
I find another reason to love him.