Well,
Glasses frame his eyes
that crinkle with a smile
I get to belong to.
There’s something about his lips,
squared by a chin
thats just perfectly evenly seasoned,
no matter which day of the week it is.
I don’t know, I just like the way
his mouth moves around on his face
and how he can’t hide a trace
of what he thinks about this
or what he feels about that.
He would say his hair is too thin
but I like the way is sits on his head
when it’s all sprayed into place or
when he leans into my mindless hand moving it all around
just because I can.
It wasn’t that long ago since I got to know his hands,
if I could give you a rhyming line
I would say they like to
rest and work and play and flirt.
I love that he smells like he’s mine.
His breath tastes clean and sweet literally every
time im close enough to feel it.
Sometimes its tainted by a nap but I hardly notice,
by then im folded into his middle
and its just a light tickle to the neck.
His feet are the most fun,
they don’t like to run but
they are hard to catch even just to touch.
What can I say about the heart and mind,
what of the soul of the one who’s mine?
Strong.
In the way that is able to sustain
under lifes promises of tricks and strain.
Furnished with abilities,
his brains a utility that’s hard to break,
a stronghold, and not one that’s easy to take.
Even the weakness is strength because it’s
the courage to care and to feel and to
see.
He knows the resolve to decide to believe.
Soft.
He’s not going to hold back tears,
hes always going to choose to show what’s genuine
and after a moment,
tell me what’s going on for real.
Persistent.
You and I would know the way he lands on something
or someone and wants and asks and waits and
finds.
He is always open but ever set in some kind of motion,
moving in a direction,
processing an idea,
and creating a plan to make it touch reality.
What makes him come alive?
Thats a question I might want to ask him.
But I wouldn’t trade the way he sings and clings
to Jesus on the cross.
You yourself planted this truth inside his heart and
there’s no knowing what kind of transforming
is left to complete.
When this ink that has sunk into his skin
sinks into his veins and pumps to and from his heart and
drains out through the hands that hold me.
When he exhales and I smell the words written on his arm,
the truth a life must surrender to obtain,
To live is Christ, to die is gain.
This one I love, what can I tell about him
except to say that he is
Yours.
