Genuine. in The First Life

He sings that I am kind.
Says I’m sweet, that I am good to him.
A ballad I’ve never known
It’s like I’ve been a ghost to past lovers but he…he sees me.
All of the self opening doors, the filled glasses, the warm breath and nails on skin sensations…
He sees me.
Takes off his glasses and still sees me.
Closes his eyes and still knows it to be me.
And praises…tilts his head and raises his brow and thanks me.
Takes his hands and cups my heart and hums to its butterfly beating.
His hardened fingertips play me.
I dance for him, moving and shaking, bumps raising.
Eyes fixed and not looking through me.
Me …
The hard mouthed, tightline lipped introvert.
Bloody tongued, stale faced, brow raised ice queen.
Cold shoulder, flared nostril, winged eyeliner, walk fast so no one can stop you. Look down so no one will talk to you.
Resting bitch face, girl.
That’s not who he sees.
I’m the easily melting on top of him, smile eyed, golden heart, dimples as deep as the depth of my laughter, girlfriend. The hand holding, bad joke telling, talks too much when drinking, soft tongued, lover.
When I dream about him, I dream with a sense of trust, not fear.
His body is thin but his soul is much larger, his mind much broader, and his smile is reserved for when he means it.
He touches with purpose, exhales with conviction, kisses like he’s missed me his whole life. Like the sun and moon that have finally eclipsed and found one another.