His name isn't important,
Rather it's more of of the way it feels on your tongue,
Whether you're spitting it back at him,
Or swallowing it along with your pride,
When asking for help.
His name isn't important,
Rather it's more of the way it feels on your lips
When they're pulled back into a grin
Or are pursed into a pout.
His name isn't important,
No, it's more of the way it feels in your throat,
A raw sensation on your vocal chords,
When you scream it within a dream,
Terrified of losing him.
Or just as raw, but a thousand times more euphoric
When it's pitched into a moan.
His name isn't important.
No, it isn't.
It's the way your face flushes when you hear his voice,
Or the way your stomach jumps into giddy butterflies when he's coming home,
Or the way your heart frenzies and then settles into a rhythmic beat when he lays his head on your chest.
It's the way he holds you
When you get too bad,
When you didn't mean it,
When you don't know how it happened,
When you just don't remember but it stings,
So he helps you clean yourself off,
He helps you clean it off,
And helps bandage you up
Before you go to bed.
It's the way he doesn't hate you for it.
His name isn't important,
Rather, it's the way he makes you feel like you're flying, and that the air is your home.
It's the way he turns the fan down and the heater on before he leaves, so you don't get cold without him there.
It's the way he eats what you cook, and doesn't tell you it's bad when it's bad, unless you bring it up first.
It's the way you notice the little things about him, like the way he holds you tight before he gets up in the morning,
Or the way he wraps his arms around you,
Or holds your hand
Or brushes the hair out of your face because he wants to see your eyes
Or just the way his silhouette against his colors strikes your heart,
The way his eyes pierce into your very soul.
It's the way you feel like you have to protect him too,
Just like he protects you,
Because he gets defensive when he explains that he wants to do something,
And relaxes when you explain to him that it's okay, of course he can do the thing he wants to do, you would never stop him from doing anything he wants, as long as it doesn't hurt him.
It's the way the worry in his eyes isn't judgmental, instead it's kind and warm and somewhat achy in your bones, like the flu. But it doesn't make your heart drop, like when he gives you bad news.
His name isn't important,
No, it's the way he wants to care for you,
The way he has trouble articulating how he feels about you
Because he's not the poet, you are.
The way he tries to show it through adverbs and actions,
And you notice it occasionally.
It's the way it still feels surreal
That he cares to the extent that he does.
His name isn't important,
No, not at all.
But rather, it's the fact
That it's his.