the most beautiful thing

the first:
I have memorized the stark line of the tendon at the back of your knee, the way your swells and dips belong on a love goddess. I could lose myself in the twisting folds of your mind, wrap your cerebral cortex around me the way you let me curl into you at night. Your fingers are nimble on the neck of a guitar and just as quick to tangle with mine.

the second:
Thank you for being my open red hibiscus. I remember your hands on me fondly and without longing. Your mouth was the one to teach me the taste of another's spit. Now we swap stories and make faces and trade hats. Our bloom has not wilted, but is pressed between the pages of a thick book with pages like tissue paper. I hold our serial just behind the chambers of my heart.

the third:
Our jagged edges have taught me to wear shoes when I sweep up broken glass, but just for you I have not yet scrubbed off my callouses. Our hair has not been knotted together and we're all the better for it. Thank you for teaching me how to dribble out silvery beads of my soul.

the fourth:
The tiny span of your waist is perfect when framed by ribbon or piecemeal stitches, ever-so-slightly unraveling cloth. The slick white shine of your teeth reflects mine, and you share my obscure joys. I know you as a pile of warm limbs and the crinkle of skin around your eyes that will become laugh lines.

the fifth:
I know you mostly from late-night pixels six hours away and the way your freckles feel as my fingertips clutch at your back. But when I am pressed against your chest with my breath wisping along your collarbones, I feel your shoulderblades and know you. The memory of your hand on my back still feels like safety and the steady rhythm of air in your lungs is lulling.