Your wide eyes
are my favourite place.
Bursts of Technicolor,
flowers that bloom and connect like dot-to-dots
when you laugh.
Fingers that flow rather than tangle,
hands that settle rather than hold.
And although humans are like clocks;
scattering seconds across the world like raindrops,
drowning each other out with ticks and chimes,
I still like the way your gears turn best.
I am trying to pretend that you aren’t special.
That I don’t see the parts of us
which are intrinsically the same.
But like when a new word is born into my vocabulary,
you have settled.
Sometimes, I have to remind myself
that your wide eyes were shattered into mosaics
by someone else.