She is like sleeping with the windows open,
or pressing a shell against your ear.

She looks like somersaults caught in sunlight,
like mowed grass,
like picnic blankets laid out under a blue edge of sky.

And she shows me I don’t always have to finish my sentences.

She tastes like pulp-free orange juice,
feels like sand nestled between my toes,
holds me with hands
you never forget holding.

She watches as I tap my feet against the floor—three times—
I close the door—three times
I kiss her cheek—three times.

And she shows me I don't have to finish my sentences.

I try to find the words to explain to her how I feel when she rubs her thumb on my palm and how I feel when she holds my waist
and