Mon, 08/18/2014 - 17:35 -- AmyyyyK

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,


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




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