Before he fell asleep, he told me
you're my kind of imperfect which makes you perfect.
I felt my breath catch in my throat
in a breath he wouldn't hear.
I have picture perfect moments of him.
The way he sings along to the radio,
in that old fashioned, back roads way.
The way he doesn't let go of my hand, ever.
No matter what he's doing.
The way he purses his lips, and squints his eyes in a playful manner
when he's teasing me.
The way his lips are always gentle on me,
not as if I'm fragile, but because he values me,
as if he knows I'll fall in love him because he refuses to hurt.
The way he moans when he enters me,
and our bodies come together.
The way he laughs with his whole body,
and tilts his head back.
The way he looks at me when he knows I'm hiding something from him,
and gently pulls it out with soft touches and calm words.
The way he buys me flowers every two weeks,
like clockwork, but still manages to surprise me
every time.
I never intended to fall in love with a nice boy,
who's from a small town and has dreams
bigger than this open, farming sky,
who believes in the people of this world,
whose thoughts sometimes keep him in bed
all day,
and make his beautiful brown eyes
have that sad tilt.
Even when he's smiling.
But here I am.
And it's happening.