Dinner at my house is a tug-of-war zone

because of your 6’2” smile,

your slightly muffled handwriting,

your candy wrapper-crinkled eyes,

and the fact that you make me feel alive.

You excuse me from the table

when I'm too full to eat,

yet I'm unable to refuse 

seconds, thirds, and fourths

from my mom who never learned the word

“stop.”

 

Your lips pull my feet over my head.

I expose my Achilles just to feel 

your love envelop me like a flowing stream.

Your kisses rank a 9.2 on the Richter scale

sending tremors through my body while 

goosebump faults travel with your touch.

That sensation is present tense,

intense when you caress my soul,

silencing seconds, thirds, and fourths

when I don't even want firsts.

 

I want midnight phone calls 

dates that give us fast paced hearts, quaking knees, 

tangled tall and short trembling hands--

You talk and I listen to your yellow words.

I devour your thoughts because I want your

seconds, thirds, and fourths.

You listen and speak with your mind,

while my heart tugs at my vocal chords 

to scream, “I'm bad at conveying how I feel, 

so here's a poem, I guess!”

 

Your dinner table is home. 

You don't want to change me.

You don't force me to be a shape I am not. 

You don't try to shove cubic expectations

into a circular person.

Your eyes will ask

“Would you like firsts,” before offering

seconds, thirds, and fourths.