I like your wiry crooked smile, the way it opes your green eyes up to cartoonish size, your slightly crooked coffee-stained teeth make their rare appearance. You seem a little goofy, uncertain of what to do with yourself when you smile. It perfectly counteracts your perfectly textured hair, the sharpness of your coat and delicately patterned tie, the chestnut shine of your shoes, your articulate and calculated words. Your smile is disarming, it reminds me that even when you seem too good to be true, you are still human.
you have a shoulder
of perfect height to lean my head on;
the elevator descends and opens its reflective gates and
upright, i remain.
green eyes has good teeth,
i should’ve been a dentist, he jokes.
seat mere feet from seat, four palms
two occupied with frosty clinking glasses,
(no salt on yours, he says, freeing one palm with a grin)
he takes off his rimmed glasses and wipes them,
“you look nice without those,” i say, he smiles.
your eyes were brown indoors and hazel in the sun,
your legs were short,
your shoulders, your gaze
cast towards your small quick feet,
your words sped when our tension thickened,
sludge-like with the absence of words until
our bodies found their ways to separate places.