he does this thing, with his tongue,
this half-conscious dart across the lower lip,
a blink-and-you’ll-miss it peep show
for the oral fixation crowd.
he does this thing with his hands,
fingers up and almost defensive at the curl of hair
where his forehead meets his scalp,
twists it pulls it bops it when he’s thinking
and i’m no good at keeping my smiles to when he’s not looking.
what’s that face for,
he asks.
i never had a poker face, no inclination for cards,
i wear my heart on my sleeve and my heart’s in his hands,
he’s pulling at the fabric like he wants my attention,
he just doesn’t know it yet.
that’s just my face,
and it’s not a lie, not really,
it is my face when i look at him,
when he does one of a million and one endearing things
(like that thing with his tongue and that thing with his hands and his hair)
(like that thing where there’s that pause between punchline and laughter, like he’s thinking it over)
(like that thing he does when he cracks all his fingers at once, bones raring for a fight even if he isn’t)
(like his split-wide-open grin or that way he fiddles with his glasses—)
that background radiation of love, love, love bleeds through my fingers and my split lips
and that’s just my face because that’s just him.
have i ever written a love poem?
he says,
and my heart beats in stanzas and my blood flows in free verse.
my very existence is a book with his name in black and white on the dedication page,
everything he does the beginning of a new line in a seemingly
never-ending sonnet i’m writing called
i am a lovesick idiot and it is all for you.
he does this thing with his voice when he reads me poetry,
this lowered tone so carefully measured it could be for a recipe,
and i try so hard to hear the words
but all i can hear is him.
i mouth the titles to myself to look up later,
(i was listening, i promise)
and when he finishes it’s with a sigh.
he has a way with last lines,
he says,
and i choke down on
you have a way with me.
