The Way in Which He Whispers

An ant is crawling in my ear,
black antennae bouncing against my ear drum
whispering to watch the way you look at me
when you think I'm looking elsewhere.
Watch the way your hands draw parabola in the air
like glow sticks at night.
Abstract dimensions flow from your lips
but the only thing abstract here is the way we say
I love you.
The ant tells me to watch the
birds who bite my finger
when I'm thinking
of your eyes,
to watch the way my blood drips down a rabbit's fur.
with dog drool on your t-shirt you
look the way I feel with an Americano in my hand,
a little bit messy, in a good way.
We're a little bit messy,
in a good way.
The way we spend our days
drinking in dos gardenias in snowy sunlight
feeling fine, in a good way.
The ant tunnels deeper, closer to my brain
just like you do.
Watch the way, he whispers,
he paints your smile like Monet's hay at sunset.
Watch the way, he says,
and I do.

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