forgive me if my words have dried up at my lips;
i’ve spent far too long shoving puzzle
pieces together without looking at
the picture on the back of the box.
maybe we’re cut from the same puzzle.
does that make sense?

i can’t think of another way to tell you—
i love the way the arch of
my foot fits against your knee, or
your ribcage to my hipbones, or
the way our pinky fingers link, or
how i’ve found the perfect nook
for my ear when i lay on your chest, and

i’ve never been one to write love poems, but
maybe that’s because i hadn’t met you yet.