They say write what you know.
So, I write sonnets dedicated to the freckles on his shoulders. The birth mark on his neck. My kisses smudged into the palms of his hands. The deftness of the blade chopping peppers for my salad and his laughing eyes as I gobble them up, his fingers reaching for a replacement.
The nails on his right hand that pick skillfully at guitar strings and the song he begins to write for me in pieces like my limbs strewn across his bed, my cheek at home on his chest, our heartbeats in quick harmony with our heads.
My scribbles in a journal frenzied with revelation. Happiness.
This most of all:
The tenderness in his eyes right before the words spill out of his mouth
and I mop them up
mop them up with my lips.