I know you best in parts.

I start at your face,

run my fingers along your cheekbones,

down the hollows,

to your lips, from which have echoed

a thousand songs,

and a thousand and one

declarations.

Then your shoulders,

which I have leaned against,

the nape of your neck,

the broad of your chest,

where I have buried myself,

sunken into early morning whispers

and late night haze.

I slide my skin against your river arms,

follow the trickle to your fingers,

which have gestured and pointed

and seen,

and locked with mine

to pull me along.

Your stomach rumbles when you laugh,

I have traced the lines,

drawn circles along your navel,

marveled at how hard

and at the same time,

how soft.

I work my way down your legs,

to your feet,

I wonder what paths have led us here,

what worlds these legs have traversed,

if they've spent more time running

to or from,

and where they're going next.

And then back up as I settle beside you,

watching you bend the silence

with hazel eyes.

Windows to the soul,

I watch them close when you sleep,

and blink open to face the world.

The life you've touched,

reflected in your irises,

written in your fingertips.

I wonder, what horrors have you seen,

what beauty?

And what,

what do you see in me?