The curvature of your spine
beneath a thin layer of fleece,
the not-quite-circular birthmark
that lives above your left knee,
the way the sun shines through clouds
when you’re beside me on the sidewalk,
the way pasta tastes so much better
when we’re alone at Giovanni’s.
Shivering less
when you grab my hand in December.
Smiling wider
because you’re singing in the shower
and it’s way off key,
but you’re exceptional at living
and listening
and you refuse
to breathe through your nose after midnight
and if you ever stopped laughing
about our car ride antics
I think I would fall to my knees
in disarray.