It started at your ankles, rising slowly with the blood
and sinews that attached it to your leg.
I first was envious of your skin,
wanting to be the thing that wrapped around you
and protected your insides from breaking.
My hands locked, anguishing over the pools of redness
deepinging the farther you dipped your calf.
I was fascinated with you then,
your thighs peeking from beneath your
loose-fitting shorts; I hadn't discovered it yet,
the feeling of seeing you,
and if I had I was pushing it away
for my sanity
and for your safety.
I made you smile, and the way your lips
shaded your teeth solidified my deliberation.
For days I agonized over the right words
to move your mouth,
for nights after I dreamed of your enamel
and the way it would feel lifting to make room
for my tongue.
I saw it, centered,
the rough mountains on top of the muscle
that kept all your secrets.
I looked at your eyes,
searched for a puzzle-pieced conclusion to
all the life you had lived before me.
Your soul climbed through your pupils and onto
borne over and covered in fluids,
a creature to nurture and mold to fit
the passion already bursting at your seams.
You were mine.
Before you ever realized it, before you ever really saw me,
I knew the next goal you fulfilled would be at my hands.
You'd ache for me, dearly.
I know that you love me and I know that I love you and
I know that you didn't know either of these things then.
You still do not know either of these things.
We only pass each other silently,
or with snide remarks,
circumventing the fact that every time I see you I want to ask,
Where do I look now?
Because there is no part of you I have not memorized
and there is no word for the way I feel when
your body matches up next to my own.