How you look at me the same way my grandparents look at each other
With a soft stare and a considerate smile and
I often think about how my grandmother probably never realized he was looking
At the way her eyes glisten at the birds and
The way she sings while folding the laundry and
At the way she grins and points at the thawing snow when
The gardenias first bloom.
I wonder why sometimes you look so terribly sad when you take my face in your palms
And maybe it’s just the longing or possibly
Even the smoke that lingers in the basement
But I feel just as wistful as I am in love.
I could write all the poetry in the world about you.
The way your eyes crinkle when I pout at you
The way your laugh sounds like we’re under water
How your hands represent strength but how your palms hold care
And there comes a point where I simply stop writing
Because every string of words cannot tell the story soft enough
Or strong enough
Or with enough passion
I could write all the poetry in the world about you
If I could just as easily spend an eternity attempting to place the words messily together