I think of your poetry–
your pale-skinned curvature and
scruff, whiskered, irreverent-joke-laugh-smile

I think of your eyes, hazel-ish–
your observations of all that is strikingly insignificant and
sharp,

I think of your comedic strain-smile,
your propensity for incessant worry and
warm, tightening too-short-finger-nailed hand holding.

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