I like those little moments
when we’re smothered and surrounded and squeezed;
when you turn around and look back at me,
with cupcake frosting eyes and quirked lips,
with your vintage laced hands, carmel tinged hair,
and move so you can walk next to me.
Sometimes we don’t say anything
Just kind of glance at each other,
roll our eyes or laugh—Well,
and sometimes we talk about a lot,
but the awkward silences sound
safe when I’m walking next to you.
I’m scared to speak a lot
(in class and at home and in your arms)
But you never have to hear my words
to know what I’m trying to say.
maybe it’s because you don’t believe in love anymore
than I do,
or perhaps it’s the gentle circles that twist
lazy laps around the latitude of your fingers—
But for some reason I’m not afraid
to hold your hand.
I like it when you smile
(kind of how you like to make me smile)
but I think we can both agree
that nothing is better than the strange contortions
trying to fit on the couch with the dogs
and without spilling our homemade
mugs of overheated hot
I like the way our veins
throb out of sync, but we can still
recognize each other’s heartbeat.
I like how you let my hide behind my hair
and don’t force me to say
what we already know.
But I love that I can hold your hand
without being afraid the most.