Somewhere there is a girl so sick of love she would rather break her hands than write that word again. That girl is not me; the slopes and spears of your name still knock my knees out from under me.
God bless the men who will kiss you and mean it; who stop you from cracking your knuckles too much; who don’t mind morning breath, or dirty hair, or tears.
God blessed you — have you seen your smile? Or the way your eyes look in the morning? What about your hands on the steering wheel — the square nails, the wide palms, the long fingers? Have you seen any of it? Your red hair in the sunlight. Flecks of copper. Strands of gold.
When I laugh into your mouth, you echo back. Do you know how rare that is? Because I’ve known nothing like it. Nothing like you. Nothing like I. Have you seen the way I look at you?
I kiss your wrists because they hung the moon.
I just know it.