I was never very good at geometry, but I could draw the shape of your eyes from memory and I knew the exact angle at which you would glance over at me out of the corner of your eye whenever you were driving.
I was never very good at foreign languages, but you taught me everything I needed to know about French in one night. We even coined our own language, exclusive to late summer nights and composed of hushed words we weren't brave enough to say in the daylight.
I was never very good at music, but we sure as Hell made our own little symphony of whispered laughs. I never was a singer but boy, I sang your name like it was my saving grace, the vowels resonating on my lips a little too long and tasting faintly of Marlboros, hanging in the air above us, caught in your stale, exhaled smoke.
I was never very good at history, but I knew the story behind every single one of your scars as if the memories were my own. I knew your mother's birthday and the story of your first kiss and the meaning behind that Red Hot Chili Peppers song you always sang to me.
I was never very good at geometry, but I didn't need to be. I knew every curve and contour of your jaw, your neck, your back, as though it were my own skin I traced with shaky fingers at dusk.