Our hands don't seem to fit
nor do our voices or our minds
or any of the many parts of you and I.
And that lack of fitting,
fits us perfectly.
The breeze carries your breath
and I can smell the whiskey on your lips.
Crossing my heart, I hope to die
in pursuit of your crooked teeth
tapping against mine.
If I lean closer, will you stop me
from running my fingers against your cheek
to map the pattern of your stubbled skin?
The path of your nose
is my slanted north.
Dark circles dance 'round dark eyes
and I can see you watching me
as I swing my feet left - then right.
I'm wearing your socks,
A pair of too-big treasures.
The backs of your hands are bronze -
the sun and I have kissed you too often -
and your fingers mix with mine,
perfectly fitting
where perfect shouldn't fit.
