flashes of
the morning sun waking up
to stripe your back through the blinds,
water falling across mid-summer skin,
lashes folding up so close i can feel the breeze,
dimples,
dimples,
dimples.
and your eyes are not the colour of
milked down chocolate
or silt and soil
like you claim —
they're cherry wood and honey
warm & light & deep & rich —
and they don't look away
even when i can hardly breathe
under their heaviness.
and those eyes read me like a book
steady and linear
one page to the next until you were done
and i had no more stories left to share.
but i read you like a poem
doubling back and again
stuck and gasping
at one verse, one word, one jawline
wondering,
always,
how many ways one could interpret
you.
S.
{Photo: Angela Kim Flickr}
