Observations of a Poet

I can read you like a
book.
You told me that yourself.
I know it's a weird
sort of
comfortable,
but would you like to know
what I see?

Your eyes, brown a lighter
shade than mine
give almost nothing away.
But.
They light all the way up
when you talk about
how much you
love wrestling.
They harbor a soft focus
when you are listening
to me talk.
And you are always
listening.
Your eyes
darken ever so slightly
when you talk about
non-lethal ways to debilitate
someone,
which is enough to tell me
I would never mess with you,
but also enough to tell me
I am totally
safe with you.

You have two kinds of smiles.
One is the one in place that
everyone gets to see.
The one you wear to work.
The one you hold carefully
in place.
The one that never wavers.

And then.

There is your real smile.
The one that touches your eyes.
The one that come out when
we are laughing together.
When we are trying not to laugh
at the coworker you want to adopt
but might be stalking one or
both of us.
When you talk about your daughters.
When you talk about your grandmother.
When you are jamming to Gin and Juice in my car.

I suspect I'm the only one around
who gets to see the real smile
or the way your eyes light up
when you wear it.

I suspected before you said it
that you love me.
You do this incessant looking at me thing
whenever you're worried about me.
You ask me about how I'm doing
when you notice certain things
I'm not doing.
You pick up on all the little details
and hold them with you,
collecting them along the way
and keeping them close to
your heart.

I could go on forever and a day.
Maybe you have never been looked at
by a poet,
but I see magic.
I see strength.
I see kindness.
I see the poem of you folding out in front of me.
I see right into your soul like no one
ever has.
And perhaps that's a comfort for you.
Or perhaps it scares the hell out of you
that someone can see you so clearly.
Maybe it terrifies you a little that someone
can see every little piece of your heart.

And she's not running away.