All the ways we say I love you

you glow, but only in a breathless voice like
breathing underwater. morning after scratches
down his back. love bites in unusual places. ruining
his shirt when your heart bleeds mascara isn't I love you,

but the fact that he let you is. don't go.

building yourself a home inside his ribs.yes,
I'll stay a little longer. sweet dreams text messages
at four am because he doesn't sleep like
normal people do. quiet desperation in the way
you say his name.

no, don't say that, don't ever say that. the night
he clung to you like a child because he dreamt that you
weren't breathing. please don't do this.
not this. knowing the angle of his jaw by touch. the way

he runs a finger along yours. breathing whisper-kisses
against his skin. every single poem for years,
and years,
and years.

maps of foreign countries you could rule together. your eyes.

I haven't felt this warm in months.

the way he grabbed your hand the last time, when he knew
but you didn't, and he grabbed it anyway. the way
you try to understand that, and fail. goodbye,

but only when you're saying stay, please stay. goodbye,
even when he's not.

knowing you would swim to him if you had to, make
a raft of your body and rake your fingers through the waves.
breathing him in from your knees. touching
the corners of your eyes while you're dreaming. licking
the indent of your lip while you breath.

you're beautiful, when you know that sunflowers
are beautiful and africa is beautiful and seastars
but never you.

your body bending towards him and breaking like
waves around his hands. the need. confessing that your
father makes you sad and you wish that you
were closer to your sister and your
grandmother doesn't remember your name and the only
person who ever loved you unconditionally was your dog
and he sure as hell shouldn't have.

the moment that comes directly after. I do.

I do.
I do.
shhh.
don't cry.
it's all right.
I'm here.
I love you.