Rose

It started at your ankles, rising slowly with the blood and sinews that attached it to your leg. I first was envious of your skin, wanting to be the thing that wrapped around you and protected your insides from breaking. My hands locked, anguishing over the pools of redness deepinging the farther you dipped your calf. I was fascinated with you then, your thighs peeking from beneath your loose-fitting shorts; I hadn't discovered it yet, the feeling of seeing you, and if I had I was pushing it away for my sanity and for your safety. I made you smile, and the way your lips shaded your teeth solidified my deliberation. For days I agonized over the right words to move your mouth, for nights after I dreamed of your enamel and the way it would feel lifting to make room for my tongue. I saw it, centered, the rough mountains on top of the muscle that kept all your secrets. I looked at your eyes, searched for a puzzle-pieced conclusion to all the life you had lived before me. Your soul climbed through your pupils and onto your cheeks, borne over and covered in fluids, a creature to nurture and mold to fit the passion already bursting at your seams. You were mine. Before you ever realized it, before you ever really saw me, I knew the next goal you fulfilled would be at my hands. You'd ache for me, dearly. I know that you love me and I know that I love you and I know that you didn't know either of these things then. You still do not know either of these things. We only pass each other silently, or with snide remarks, circumventing the fact that every time I see you I want to ask, Where do I look now? Because there is no part of you I have not memorized and there is no word for the way I feel when your body matches up next to my own.