My favorite time of the day is the majority of six minutes that his attention becomes mine.
He's something I'd love to wrap around myself
and I'd imagine a warm feeling
cooling the burnt edges and rough breaks
easing the incessant aching that has become my life.

Something about the way he talks makes the world dissipate around us
and for once I'm not drowning in myself
but in him.

When he's here there aren't words beating my mind
or feelings strangling me with bloodied fingers
there isn't that urge to burn myself down
and the sense that I'm not okay doesn't exist to him
because I don't let him ask.

I'd much rather spend our time listening to him
and always walking on his right side
because I love to look up at him and see how the sun plays shadows on the creases of his mouth
and the infrequent freckles that play in lines on his cheek
the familiarity of his eyes that tell stories of ever changing blues and greens
how he always tilts his head towards me when we talk.

When he crosses my mind (all too often)
butterflies don't shift and shake
they begin to awaken and tremble delicately
nostalgia creeping in every crevice
and I'm consumed in his essence.

And it's funny because he always tells me about her
but I always ask.
How he's never felt like this and how different everything is.
It hurts me when he speaks of how unsteady they are
upsets me how she won't love him like she should
like I could.

In those six minutes something normal flickers inside me
something reassuring.

Usually in our six minutes I ignore the irony that while he's falling for her
I'm falling for him.