I love finding pieces of you,
forgetting and discovering them
underneath my bed,
your mother's pearl necklace.
With the front door turning with a soft click,
and your shoes crunching on the ice out to your car,
I paint with tangerine orange
about the secrets, the kisses, and the skin
that we shared,
and the paint stays on my skin longer than the feeling of your warmth,
because before long I am dialing your number again
and placing my fingers over the curves in your back.

I love smelling your hair
and laughing at my mistakes.
I love touching you slowly, taking off your jewelry,
spidery metal and Hindu necklaces,
staring into the eyes of the bronze goddess.

I love when you wear boys' clothes,
hats and trousers,
so I can pretend I like boys too,
breathing in your cologne-scent
of a teenage boy.

On the musty couch in your basement
with bugs and flowers and teacups all over the floor,
you kiss all the words from my mouth,
over and over,
'til there are only sounds flowing out,
but they make more sense than words ever could.