What is it that we do
When we first want to love each other?

Our early love is a place
Where the senses get bent and blend
Blemishes into so many minute perfections.

Mornings I touch you in bed;
Sometimes, your hand sifts through my hair.
I sense you’ve noticed
That dryness on my scalp—
You look at me, unmoved,
As your hands find the scars on my shoulder.
This is my secret skin,
You have found me.
My own hands wander—
I am searching your figure
Expecting, at any moment,
To find the hidden flaw.
I find nothing
And I give up happily.
Then I fall asleep,
Admiring the *****
Of your coffee-skinned back
And your changing shape—
Larger as you breathe in, then
You shrink somewhat.