I believe that love is physical.
I’m a chronic nonbeliever, no trees falling in a silent forest, no cosmic sizzle between you and your next mistake.
But this time I have proof, and not in a lonely way.
Holding me is easy –
Everyone breathes the same rhythm and feels like peach fuzz and loses fingers snared in hair like jungle vines.
You only need to be close for one second. If I’m going to fall in love,
It means letting in again and again. Too much about me to be seen by sneaking up,
Horizon distance won’t count, laugh or cry alone covers nothing.
I believe that love is physical
Because the person who loves me will know
That I match my pajamas when I’m upset
And wing my eyeliner when I’m scared.
That I pick at my collarbone since I’ve cut my hair because
My hands don’t stay still unless I’m plotting fight or flight.
I curl my elbows in my hoodie sleeves so I can flop the arms around.
I can’t keep a poker face unless I’m gnawing on my cheek.
I get so angry that I tremble like it’s frostbite,
And when I’m too sad it pins my arms to my sides
And locks granite into my calves.
I twitch my fingers when I hold your hand because I want it to be perfect.
And if I don’t curl when I’m sleeping,
It means I’m staying up all night,
Just listening to your breath
And thinking about how lucky I am
That we gave each other something to believe in.