feet together, hands apart

someone who notices the way i open doors
the way i put on my coat
the way i look when i’m sleeping
and how my fingers pull the hair away from my eyes

who watches the way my hand moves across paper
writing pictures of memories, things of my imagination, and life
who catches the scent of my breath
or the sweep of my hair
and suddenly feels different because i’m in his line of vision

someone who memorizes the tilt of my hips when i walk
and the wrinkles of my nose and mouth when a laugh breaks through

who knows the shape of my neck
the curve of my back
the touch of my hands
and the rough edges of my fingers,
calloused with nails bitten to the quick

[who will blush and smile when i pay him a compliment
and will laugh nervously and change the subject when someone makes a crude remark;
who wants nothing more than for me to be comfortable, happy, at ease and content,
even in the smallest ways.]

someone who will know when i’m hurting
and who will be able to make it suddenly unimportant
                                                                        without words.

who will remember everything i say because everything i say will be a thing of beauty
however meaningless it may be.

who won’t be perfect–but whose imperfections i can deal with.
and who will grant me the same allowances.
i’ll help him quit smoking
he’ll help me to stop biting my nails;
we will be good for each other.

my lashes will grow long and curled
in my regained innocence.

            [where i knew only what i’d experienced,
and what i’d experienced was only real. 
minimal, but real.]

to brush his cheek, tickle his nose,
make him sneeze, laugh, and look at me
with amazement in his eyes.  that i am his.

that i.
             am.
                       his.