I have decided just now—
just now, fall into a coma & you’ll miss it—
that I am entirely in love with you;
it is not because you have kind & sleepy eyes
& no, it is not because you have curly hair
(though admittedly it
wouldn’t be the first time).
It is not even because of the untidy tower of
books at your elbow that have obscure titles
& Russian-sounding authors—
it is not because of any of these things.
It is because every time you sit down,
before you open a book,
you take off your shoes under the desk,
as if no one was watching,
& quietly knead the carpet with your socks
as you turn each page.
This is the reason.
And because of this—
I feel I should tell you—
you have become, in my makeshift mind,
the length of time it takes for a giraffe’s tear
to reach the ground;
the sound of the moon to a mute wolf;
& the secret part of a swallow’s brain
that tells it where to fly
when the first frost glisters.