334/365: Bawdy Theatre
I love your fingerprints
against the roof of my mouth
and how the back of your neck
smells like clean, warm babies.
I love thinking about
the animal things your tongue does
with the soft food I cook.
I love watching your eyes
move beneath your lids when you dream.
I am witness to the miracle of our selfhoods,
the marvel of your whole self solitary
beating helpless to its electrical currents
and willing itself known in the pause.
It is a bawdy theatre of the senses,