Your eyes were always my favorite.
Bright stars on the dark background of your chocolatey, tousled hair.
Warm and inviting they drew me to you
to sit with you
wrapped in a blanket
by the fire.
Sipping something warm,
something brown, and dark from the mug tucked between our hands.
It was dark and brown but never as dark as your tousled hair or your winter hat,
a shade of deepest forest green – another earthly element in the dark backdrop from which your celestial eyes shone.
Warm, and inviting me to take your hand in the dark.
Large but comforting and smooth, I noticed, (as though a large hand would not be expected to have such qualities.)
You grasped my hand
and stuck it inside yours
and stuck it inside your pocket.
We would wiggle our chilly fingers inside your pocket.
At night when we walked through the town with chilly hands and tingly fingers,
sporadically, you would start humming one tune or another,
some of them real songs and others not-real ones
about stars, or elephants, or keyboards for computers,
some far-off building, or a leaf blowing down the street.
You'd snap at me, lovingly, and remind me,
tell me, correct me, yet again that
no song is "not-real"
all songs are real
all music is real;
in fact, you'd add,
music is realer than most other things we encounter day to day; if nothing else, music is importanter.
I loved when you used you-words
importanter, realer, spitsling, steamish, sourdoodle.
Your eyes shone brightest when you used you-words.
