A Man’s Response

...because honestly, I could care less what your hair looks like or the color of your eyes and how dark you've made them by saturating every last poor with paint...or the way your lips curl crisply under your thin drawn nose, and I like that your shoulders almost reach mine, but not quite enough, yet enough for me to wrap my arms around, and…and I don't care the way your curves hang out here or there, if only I can blanket myself in your warm bosom as though it were a battle of comfort yet comforting battle, and don't ask how a dress falls about your waist and hides those handles beneath. I wish your legs would stand right there, without moving this way or that, always so upright and tight, always perfect like lamp posts yet quaint as bending branches, and rid those heels the stumbling you dance upon, and let each toe seep into the grains of life, where every print made engraves upon my heart some melodious chorus strung on every valve beating within me, and don't mock how often I forget when each second of thought saturates the fiber of my flesh wishing, waiting, just to touch yours, and don't tell me you're alright with those pupils lying, somewhere a truth unbearable to share...but still you ask, and still...I could care less really, not really that I care less but so much I do that every moment questioned divides my caring to worlds unlived, abhorred...and don't ask how much I love you!  Sufficient is to be here, aside you, breathing the same air, drifting into untouched spheres, losing every part of my soul, found in the palms of your hands.