Now and Then

his fingers are the same fingers he wore two years ago

long, thin, pale and delicate

they had hesitantly touched my hair

my shoulders.

two years ago

he cautiously brushed tendrils from my face.

today he touches me not with hesitancy,

but with tenderness.

soft confidence betrays him —

the pinched corners of his eyes promise

there is no more fear in his fingertips.

his nose is the same nose he wore two years ago

proud and confident

it juts from his cheekbones

like the prow of a ship

two years ago

it seemed to punctuate his intelligence

edging its way into every argument.

it chiseled its way to my bones

today it softens.

when he draws his face close to mine,

I see the reflection of my own.

his nose lands like a moth on mine

sweet and sleepy.

His hips are the same hips he wore two years ago

sharp and thin

the envy of my own;

hidden under layers that women must carry.

two years ago

I could hold his in my hands

cupped in my palms.

they strain against his taut skin

looking as though they could burst through.

but today they sink, they hide, melt

today his hips belong to me.

His heart is the same heart that hung in his chest two years ago,

hidden behind ribs,

a wall of choked-back words.

two years ago,

I could hold my ear to him

hear the dots and dashes,

but its Morse-code was a strange language,

incomprehensible.

it ran on oil and and batteries

its gears turned in sync.

today my ear falls through the cracks

his wall dissolves.