Statue

Some mornings love is the half-warm cup of coffee you left on the night table while I slept in. It’s the intertwined fingers in the gear shift. The long, relaxed sign after wrapping your arms around me— squeezing so tight all my ribs become floating ones.

It’s staring with tiger lamp eyes— your blushing protests and half-hearted attempts to get me to shut up when I’m not talking.

Better to say when I’m non-verbal— because I’m always communicating with you. Making space on the couch. Readjusting my stance as you back into me in a cramped elevator. The continuous mold and release of our bodies.

I’m never so silent as stone— and I pray I never become a statue.