I don’t think of
this red line
a globe of countries
and roads and languages
I think of the ice rink
of your eyebrows.
The space between each
spiral, falling from your
head into my hands.
I think of the light
and warmth, of morning
reflecting on the sweep of lashes
that revealed the perfect pair
of caramel eyes.
I think of the gap between each of
your teeth. Tiny, and evident.
I think of my rib cage, zipping up
into yours, as I laid on top of you, and
planted my lips on your chin
and told you I loved you for the 100th time that day.
I think of your eyes looking through my lense, always fondly.
Sometimes methaphorically and sometimes not.
I think of your tongue resting in your smile for mischief.
I think of your fingers, and each hand of different lengths.
I think of your radiated presence in a room of lackluster.
I think of your voice, and the way it travelled through me,
spiking each hair, and raising each follicle, and never
stopping at a goosebump.
I remember the way your heart felt when it was only us and the night;
Just like mine.