Movement


He stood by the stove with
his back to me
I sat and watched curiously from the table,
my chin on my palm, head tilted
He poured another batch of pancakes,
spoon also tilted,
into the sizzling pan and rested his hand on the counter
It was simple movement, the mere usage
of muscles, but it meant
the world to me
He was more than just a body,
more than just a receiver I talked to now and then
without a care about what I'd said
He was human and he was perfection
in the most flawed ways
There was the scar
under his right eye, the way his hair curled
at the ends,
the lilt in his voice
when he spoke, his hero complex,
the fact that he was always right
especially when he was wrong, and the way
he loved me, unconditionally
He was flawed perfection in human form and I,
I watched him say, "I love you," by cooking me
breakfast for the first time

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