I wouldn’t change a thing

The first thing I notice

is the way he looks at me

deep eyes poring into mine

with an unnameable intensity

one that only dissipates

when we both burst out laughing 

Fluttering eyelashes framed 

by crease-lined outer edges

each a small tree branch

unfolding into something beautiful

His smile planting the seeds

that grow my own.

His tattoos form an art gallery 

etched across his body

pieces gathered in pairs

some with meaning / all with story

I’ve always been an aficionado 

for modern art

and that boy

earns my admiration like the Moco

each inked work a masterpiece

I can’t help but linger over.

He draws me in with his style 

pulling off tote bags + carabiners

double ear + nose piercings

layered necklaces + stacked rings

I’ve never met a man as comfortable 

in his self-expression

as what i’ve found in him

“I love this outfit” I tell him

long sleeve tucked into shorts

thin fabric clinging to his frame

knowing he could be wearing anything 

and command my attention all the same.

He runs his hands through his hair

and I marvel at 

dark waves flowing down 

the nape of his neck

listen in on descriptions 

of how much product it takes 

to make them look effortless

He tells me he’s growing his hair out

and I grow a soft spot

for the earnest smile he flashes 

whenever he’s excited about something.

His hands graze a countertop

stirring up static between us 

it takes everything in me

not to touch them —

“new tattoo?” I ask

I’d recognize second skin anywhere

so the question is redundant

I’m only looking for

an excuse to study them.

His hands creep into mine

for the first time

under a tabletop

fingers lacing through my own

thumbs tracing each other in circles

this small caress

of skin against skin

makes my heart flutter

and once he starts touching me

I never want him to stop.

Tension buzzes between us 

as I match his poring gaze 

from across the passenger seat 

graze my lips against his neck

run my hands through his hair

consider myself lucky

to be invited home

so my body can finally meet his —

and when I trace my

lips / tongue / hands / clit

against his body 

hips rocked into hips

legs held by strong arms

mouths that stay hungry

never getting enough

no matter how many times

we get each other off —

I stare in admiration at his

eyes / tattoos / style / hair / hands / body 

Knowing that if god himself

handed me the paintbrush

to recreate that boy’s image —

Well, I’d pin him to the wall of the Moco

without changing a thing.