love me for being

someone who loves scrabble

someone who sleeps with her back near an open window in winter, breath rolling like a river into night

someone who wants to be waken up by love poems by e.e. cummings, and gives a small candle-flicker of a smile before opening her eyes

someone who appreciates the architecture of churches, but refuses to step inside

someone who has hands fit to hold wounded sparrows

someone who would tattoo that name onto her arm in the same color as her skin, so it would appear slowly as she suntanned, people thinking her blood was telling secrets to the world of its own accord

someone who learned Spanish to read  Neruda

someone whose hips whisper their own stories of the serpent and the garden of Eden

someone who playfully bites the back of their neck, or like a leopardess, carrying her kitten to safety

someone who will make him wait for her to come out of the shower

someone whose smallest movements are most amazing: the falling of her hair over her shoulder, the deep sigh when she sleeps

someone who maps out every ticklish part of his body, and uses her knowledge strictly for evil

someone who paints their bodies black and makes love under the stars

someone who burns through a chest like the first shot of scotch

someone whose tongue nervously traces the roof of her mouth

someone who stopped listening to Bob Dylan after he sold out to China

someone who who smells faintly of coffee, cigarettes, perfume, shampoo

someone who understands the unforgivable importance of life