He is
vitamin.
He is corkscrew instead of broken bottle,
he is my mending.
He is the knock after the door bell
in fear that the person inside didn’t hear.
He is heard.
He is small talk but larger weapon,
he is floor mates with double-barreled liquor bottles,
pulling the trigger on his own body
making silence of this always murmuring home.
He is the walls holding his secrets,
they hear what he says in his sleep
and maybe that's where all the cracks come from.
But he turned southern drawl
into quiet croon.
He is speaking tongues
meant for sweet tea and small city,
able to walk its entirety in under an hour
but that's only because he stopped looking.
Mistaking familiar scene
and forgetting to pause at the
architecture tourists swoon over for days.
He is virtuous.
He is “i miss you” texts at 2 am before falling asleep.
He is
missing.
He is the inconspicuous biting of own lips
to make them smoother,
make them easier to kiss.
He is already easy to kiss.
He is permanent ink but feels temporary tattoo,
wants people to stop trying to scratch him off.
He is not going anywhere without a paid removal.
He is fingers running through hair,
the soft trail of fingernails over skin,
the goosebumps left behind.
He is the half-asleep roll-over into waiting arms,
he is the arms.
He is the first kiss on the nose,
he is brand new city and memorized street signs.
He is the statue in the street
separating two churches from advancing towards each other.
He is street art too beautiful to take a picture of
because the pixels couldn’t do the life justice.
He is the kind of thing you have to place your palm on.
He is small hand snaked between rib and arm
just to hold onto bicep,
just to let people know this hand is here for him.
He is gentle shake begging wake,
the tighter squeeze of comfort.
He is safety.
He is 276 miles of memory,
4 hours of nostalgia I am willing to drive.
He is There,
and I am Here.
And There does not know
how lucky it truly is.