Saturday, 23 February 2013


"What's he like?" they ask.
Like nothing else. Like everything. Like my heart.
How can I reduce you to a description?
Do I tell them the sound of your voice?
The depth of it, the textures of it, the familiarity of it?
Do I tell them the taste of your skin?
The curve of your neck? The angle of your shoulders?
Do I talk about burying my face in your hair
that one time you slept on my shoulder, and how I
held you tightly so the jerky car ride wouldn't wake you?
Or do I tell them about lying with my head in your lap
looking up at you despite the sunlight in my eyes,
unable to tear my gaze from yours, wondering whether or not
to whisper the daring words for the first time?
And what of the words you whisper into my hair as you envelop
me in your warmth? How can I let my mouth form those words
without explaining the movement of your larynx
or the rhythm of your breathing?
Should I describe your laugh, and the myriad of memories
I associate with it, and all the aspirations and hopes I have pinned to it?
Do I talk about your eyes and the way they rest on me, and how
I can never dream of giving up being looked at like that?
They will never know any of this, this is mine to hold in my soul
and in my arms forever.
You bring out the best in me, but also my most selfish bits
that could never imagine allowing anyone else to see you through my eyes,
for who can stop themselves from loving you?
"What's he like?" they ask.
"He's really funny!" is all I say/