Bare Feet and Missing Socks

I wanted to woo you with my guitar

and its six strings of silk and steel.

my song would have sounded

clear and sweet

with a touch of honey

and simmering heat.

and it would have been

like one of those silly

movies or novels where

everything falls into place.

closed eyes. soft lips.

a perfect kiss.

love.

(but those are stories that

I refuse to admit that I

have listened for

at open doorways

and coffee shops,

and in the hands of guitarists

with boyish grins that

should melt me—

anywhere but the

two-dimensional model

that lies still on a page.)

it would have been like that—

but then I saw your bare feet,

so pale I thought

they had never foregone

socks until that moment.

and I laughed.

and you frowned at my inanity,

then dove in for a kiss.

our foreheads collided

and your lips were dry.

our teeth bumped.

you bit my lip.

and we couldn’t figure out

where to put our hands.

elbows, knees,

fingers, wrists—

yours were sharp

and foreign.

but afterward, you kissed

me again on

the forehead

and we both blushed.

you smiled

and said that you

would only improve

with “practice.”

you were right—

practice does make

perfect.

(you are undoubtedly

smirking at this.)

still, I don’t think you know:

you created a sun in

the hollow of my chest.

it glows hotter

even when I only

hear your voice

over the telephone

or you smile at

the creases

the pillow imprints

on my face

or nuzzle my neck

in your sleep

or when your hand

brushes my hand

or…  oh, I would have

wooed you with

six strings and my voice.

and it would have been

perfect.

but then I would have

missed your out-of-tune

humming and squeaky

whistling and that awful rendition of

“Stuck in the Middle with You.”

I wouldn’t hear your musical sighs

and the rumble of your laughter.

our first kiss

and your bare feet.

and I might hide all of your socks

now that I know

every time I laugh

I’m guaranteed a sound kiss.

not that you mind.

not in the slightest.