You used to like untangling my braids and bobby pins.  
You loved it when my knees were just draped over yours.
You said you liked the way my skin looked porcelain over your sun kissed legs.  
You'd kiss every freckle and define my gentle jaw with your lips.  
You never called me beautiful,
you were more creative,
more artistic than that.  
You hid poetry around the apartment,
under chairs,
on window sills and my favorite,
in empty pockets for me to find when we weren't home together.
You'd hide the best ones underneath the floorboards, for only us to find.  
As long as those words were hidden, so were we.  
Your favorite place to hide is in the kitchen masked by flour and spices,
waiting for me to find you.  
And your favorite place to find me is running the bathwater among lit candles.