His...
His hair -
short, thick, soft –
is the color of an old autumn leaf:
light brown, with speckles
of red and yellow.
His eyes are like nothing
I have ever experienced.
Hidden behind
his black-rimmed glasses,
they’re not quite blue,
not quite green,
but more the color
of the ocean
after a heavy storm.
His chin is always speckled
with stubble the color of
the bark on a willow tree,
and rough as summer grass
after a long drought.
His torso is long and skinny,
telling of his long days
and late nights
spent studying
without the thought of eating.
His forearms are muscular -
shaped by his many hours
bent over his guitar
perfecting his performances.
His four fingernails
on his right hand
are long and round –
meticulously filed and shaped
to produce the perfect sound
from his classical guitar.
His other six fingers
barely have nails to speak of;
bitten down to the nub
when he’s stressed,
embarrassed,
or empty-minded.
His hands speak many languages:
the language of the guitar –
classical, acoustic, electric –
the language of the piano,
the language of a tender boyfriend
cherishing my hand in his
as if it were
the most precious jewel.
They never speak the language
of violence
nor of anger.
They don’t hit,
they don’t punch,
they don’t form fists.
His legs are short,
but they still make him
a few inches taller than me.
Enough to make me
have to crane my neck
to look into his eyes.
His feet are always covered
by inside-out socks
that reach his ankles
and cover his muscular feet
shaped by many walks
through woods and
across trails.
I sit across from him,
and admire the features
that make him
uniquely
mine.