…and you can’t shut the fuck up long enough
for me to clear my head enough
to find a way to tell you how beautiful
you are, so, for the record:
Your brown eyes are as clear and sharp as
the smell of blood in air; they glint hot,
like a distant salmon that taunts the eagle
overhead; they flicker like morning sunlight patches,
they burst open in dirt between the swaying trees.
As I press my cheek into your chest it reminds me of
hiding in couch-cushion forts, your skin is the old quilt in
the Colorado basement—soft, seemingly eternal, and
your breath is the winter heating vent in that living room
floor, lulling me to sleep.
I watch your hands, your fingers, the way they curl
around space, around a glass, around my wrist; I have
noticed every square inch of space you’ve filed
into time, tucked away with your fingertips.
Matthew, I prefer it when we’re quiet.
Matthew, I like when our foreheads rest against each other.
Matthew, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile.
Sometimes your fingers fidget and curl around
empty space, like a nervous tick, around your
…and just before you leave I know
we’ll argue about something stupid
and I will forget
to kiss you.