Here's the thing about it:

The happy stuff is nice.
I like holding his hand and
watching his cheeks light up
when he talks about these 
little things that, to him, are
gargantuan things, and so
they become these beautiful
monuments before me, every
time, as if they have taken
on entirely new meanings.

Sometimes, when he touches
me, I forget the harm that bodies
can inflict upon one another.

The sunset part is nice.
Falling asleep in his arms has
quieted the itch under my skin,
the instinct in me that whispers,
“he will leave, this is all he wants, 
this is all they ever want.” 
Somehow, he has managed to 
convince me that not all humans 
were created monster, but we can 
look so much like one another 
sometimes. After all, we were all 
born with the same teeth.

None of this is why I love him.

The thing about it is, when a girl
he did not know died and I could
not let go of him when I heard, he
waited until I was able to laugh
again to ask if my heart was 
holding up alright.

The thing about it is, I would
start talking to god again if it
meant he’d be happy, if it
meant his hurt would dissipate,
turn his salt into sugar and
watch the water remain the same.

The thing about it is, I love his
heart more than I know how to
say. None of this feels anything
like giving myself away, there
is no loss here. I have relearned
this feeling, this loving; he has
never been a tetherball lover, 
my body thanks him in the blood
it has not shed.

I love him in pieces, in happiness,
in wide-stretched arms, in forearms
against tables, in the skin we are
both trying to share with one another.

The thing about it is, I know
loving, now, by the way my
fingers reached to touch him
when I saw the way his mouth
tugged inward, when I saw 
him swallow his smile.

XO- Magz