That little light coming out of the tip of your eyelashes
When you smile
The burning cigarette you keep
Under the table
Little book of love
You never admit you’d read (but you keep talking about the characters)
The certain way of thinking
That would never across my mind
Like why the sky is pinkish when I’m with you
Or why your ginger tea smells like roses
And the way you understand.
What kind of conversation you’d bring to me.
What questions you should ask me.
What phrases move me. Even when you’re not there.
Inside the piles of my problems.
You stay. I hope I’m allowed to want. You.