february 3rd

i decided to paint my bedroom walls blue 2 years ago
purely because i liked the colour
but i think something about how the
moroccan style lamplight highlights your features against
this ocean of Dulux style delights
makes it clear that even 15 year old me knew
you would be here.

i used to have art on the walls but i replaced it with poetry.
this was before i met you but now i know
that not monet, not degas not even
freida khalo, whom i love,
knew what art was until they saw how you looked that afternoon
and that model on the wall has nothing on us.

we
are
exposed.
and i can see all the foods that your mother ate when she carried you
because you are blueberry eyes and
sweet milk skin and i’m
drowning, (not that it’s such a bad thing)
because you smell like you always do and
your stomach is soft and i can feel you
breathing beneath me

like a dragon.
placing fiery kisses on my fingertips and
we are elemental.
take out the awkwardness of inexperience and
we are practically moving like an ocean
not quite the pacific but baby when
we move even the atlantic can feel it

and i love you, i really do
as much as i love books or
as much as a spaceman loves stars.
not that he really knows what the world looks like,
because he hasn’t laid across your chest and
seen how your face changes when you’re happy

your poetry won’t go wasted on me.
which is why i’m 38 lines in on february 4th, loving you honestly
which is why i’m writing about it.