Your stand.
A little shift in the weight of your legs
And I, who can’t even think of your legs
Without blushing.
And your arms
Two perfect limbs that remind me
Of some perfect redwoods I wanted to see
They hang.
Neither at your sides nor shoved in your pockets
As if you don’t know what to do with them
Lazy and unsure.
But it’s your hands that
Perfected the sense of touch
True to your earthly sign.
Within three months
I learned where your scarecrow stood
In the smile that never reaches your eyes
In your worries that never cease
I count them as I watch you sleep
I’ve come to enjoy them.
Because they speak of who you are
And of where you’ve been.
But it’s your scent,
The smell of your arms
I inhale your day
And dream of that noisy apartment you
Called Home
Where I could live in your closet
And you know where I’d be
Wrapped in a shirt I once kept.