I have no money
I have no cloths
I have a funny
Freaking nose
I have some friends
That I think are fake
I never take offence
I wanna eat some cake

I'm wearing the t-shirt you left.
It was stuffed in the corner of my room.
In a small space between the bed and the wall.
It emits the scent of your skin.
And embodies the softness of your hands.
It reminds me of how your arms don't begin to tan until just below your elbows.
I fill my palms with it's fabric and breathe in deeply.
I think I can smell sweat.
It rested on the bridge of your nose last night.
Dripped down into your tear duct.
I looked at you as I came into the room, you were laying on your stomach with the blanket wrapping you like a cocoon.
We fell asleep, but occasionally I would wake to the sensation of your lips on my shoulder blade.
I remember feeling something in my stomach.
I remember wishing you would kiss me good morning.
Don't say 'adieu'.

A fairy poked my little nose
And gave me a sense of adventure
And now every time that I'm held back
I wonder what that scent was meant for.

I love all parts of you just as I love you as a whole.

Your eyes are not your eyes.
        They are nets for light,
                catch-all-that-catch-can,
                and catch they do.

Your nose is not a nose.
        It is line and curve
                in your silhouette;
        Immediately recognizable
                and just as soon loved.

Your skin is not skin.
        It is flat and rolling prairie.
        It is not porcelain, but pocked,
                scarred and lovely.
        Sand on the beach that begs to be touched.

Your hair is not hair.
        It is thick forest
                Dark and deep.
        When I run my fingers through,
                I cannot help the rush of comfort.

Your legs are not legs,
        They are crooked columns
                of tendon and muscle,
                    cartilage and bone.
        They carry you to me.

Your arms are not arms.
        They are air.
        Strong as wind when wrapped around,
                and soft as a breeze when alighting on skin.

Your torso is not a torso.
        It is a trunk.
        Solid and beautiful.
        You are my tree and I lean against you.

Your mouth is not a mouth.
        It is a cave,
        Dark but warm
                and full of secrets.

Your hands are not hands.
        They are mirror twins,
                Machines that create and destroy.

And the ring on your finger is not a ring.
        It is the invisible oath;
        the promise that hangs in the air
                   and binds you to me.

what does it mean to be in love?

is it:
a synchronized system of sighs
?
is it:

an everlasting eternity of evolution
?
is it:

like placing hot coals on your heart?

tell me -
how every freckle formed on your face
,
and how 
you got that scar that runs through 
your nose like a river

tell me -

who is it that you want to be 
when you look in the mirror 
every morning,
what stops you from jumping off the roof
,
and how many times have you actually prayed to god
?
tell me -
what is a synchronized system of sighs?
what does it mean to be in love?

Cinnamon peppers
the rooftops in December
and the shattered
whispers over the hills.

It makes you sneeze
and your fingers
freeze
which causes
evermore solace
with the warming fumes
of myrrh.

The bubbles
which circle the edge
of your tea, darling,
pop on your nose
as the steam rises

we sit in rose,
while outside
the horizon is smudged
with ash, and coal
and dirt.