I have lopsided elbows and double-jointed thumbs,
skin that can never decide between being rough or clear.
The pediatrician said that in the womb,
my tiny limbs nearly tore the membrane
trying to find the right position within my mother’s body.
And I’ve never been particularly good with words,
either speak too much or say too little.
Botanists claim that certain kinds of lilypads
can hold up to 70 pounds of weight
but I was never capable of holding up my own heart,
much less my own head.
Everything was always in between.
Grey instead of black or white, pink instead of white and red.
Then you.
I’ll always love our crooked wars, our nights spent alone but together.
And the first time we slept in the same bed,
sinking into your body like milk, a natural disaster,
I set foot on solid ground, the horizon line.
There was never any question about being with anyone else.
Just you. You were my True North, my one decision to stay,
not pendulum back and forth between other men.
For once, my life was a single color instead of many shades.
And no one else has ever filled in the lines the way you do.