I know your silhouette better than your soul:
your mother’s maiden name, and your childhood home,
you drink your coffee black, and your toast a little burnt,
in school you traded answers for the tests you hadn’t learnt.
Your hands shake when you’re nervous — in that, I am the same,
that scar behind your ear from the accident you never named,
I know your first kiss, your go-to karaoke song,
the way your first tattoo smudged and how you had to play along.
The angle your smile tilts, it prompts your aura’s glow,
I think you’re very special, maybe more than you should ever know.
This list could stretch for hours, yet still I would not rest,
if it didn’t end with the question burning deep inside my chest:
I know your favourite things, your quirks, your fatal flaws,
but do you think I’m special, or even know me at all?