On my third cup
of tea, I learned
your hair is red
like mine in sunlight,
that your nose turns
upward. Slightly.
That your mouth
curls like ribbon
when I smile.
Brown was always
just brown until
I loved your brown
eyes and the way they
squint at my puns.

Please stop picking at your nails.

On my third cup
of tea, you sang
to me, pressing
fear from my shoulders
with snowman fingers,
letting it drip
down my arms into
my tingling fingertips.
Hands were just hands
until yours held
my waist, held me
close, tried to
clutch my heart.