3:00 AM Thoughts
I forget that you aren’t in my head,
so I forget to share the thoughts that matter at times.

I forget that you can’t always hear my heartbeat quicken when you put your hand on my thigh as we drive,
or feel as it slows when you run your thumb against mine.

I forget that you can’t always see the waves of concern
or regret pull away from my mind when you’re around me;
I forget that you can’t hear the satisfaction that gently whistles
through the window as you fall asleep holding me.

You can’t possibly read the love letters inspired,
strewn across the cluttered desk of memories and thoughts in my head.
You can’t feel the flowers bloom under my fingertips as they tap across your jawline.
Or the suffusion of happiness when your eyes bulge
and your hands slap the steering wheel because you physically can’t laugh harder.

How could you know that my favorite pass time has become memorizing you?
How your upper lip is bigger than your lower
so when we kiss we fit like a jig saw puzzle.
How you roll your eyes back and then blink twice
to wake up from dazing or how you shout the second I say that you’re wrong.
How your scruff changes direction near your neck, and how the forest
of browns and greens and greys that inhabit your eyes
captures sunlight in a way that intrigues the artist in me.

How can I physically represent the spectrum of colors
that only exist when your lips are on mine?
There’s no way to mathematically quantify the butterflies that replace thoughts when I see you and I draw blanks
when tasked with categorizing the chaos of ideas that rush my being when you ask,
“What do you want to do, today?”
In an impossibly finite world of explained science
and known laws, you’ve managed to create energy and destroy matter,
as the floor dissipates when you grab my hand and
my pulse triples when you say my name.

You push and pull at my brain with every word that
passes through your mouth, and I melt to your touch.
I don’t know.
It’s gross and vulnerable and weak. It’s a position open to judgement;
a position of honesty is one I often fear the most.
I don’t speak the language of love, and I can’t design and engineer what love looks like,
I can only do my best to describe it.
I can only assume you feel it, too.
I can only hope that you remember to read my thoughts.