everything about you feels kind of grey,
but a good kind of grey, a grey like
portside fog or clouds at night.
not grey like the clammy veined bus seat
where I broke my heart. youre grey like
sunday, like february. not grey like
his shirt I fumbled with while he
wrote on my skin with his palm.
youre grey like faded text in a worn novel.
youre grey like elegance, youre grey like
rainy mornings, like that hazy moment
before you really open your eyes. I’m
craving the newness of you, the cleanness.
I want to submerge myself in your demeanor,
in the contrast between your serenity and your laugh.
I like the narrowness of you, and the way your
eyelashes look like ink stains on your skin.
I like your inquiries about my day,
they are, word by word, washing him away.