Sometimes I wonder,
when I’m sprawled across your bed
and the sun is just starting to rise,
How would you describe this moment?
If you had to write it down–
If you had to capture it,
What would you say?
What would you notice?
Would you talk about the way the light hits my skin?
Or the separation between my lips,
or the curve of my back?
How would you describe my stare?
Would you call it pensive,
Would you wonder about the thoughts that lay
just behind my eyes?
But then I snap out of it,
look over at you,
and realize what’s happening
and who we are.
I didn’t find you pouring over literature in coffee shops,
I find you in math lectures.
I see you solving calculus problems,
not writing poems in the park when you’re in love
and suddenly everything looks beautiful.
And maybe you don’t even fall in love,
because you choose numbers over words every time.
So I stop thinking of the words you’d assign to me
when I’m staring into your eyes
or playing with my hair.
And I wonder if I’m just another number to you.
and what that number is.