I like you...
As a person.
In your finite flesh,
trembling on the inside, though you may be,
as if we don't see that you're more afraid of scars than the people that actually leave them,
how your arms are like doors with rusty hinges on them because they never quite open up all the way to let people in...
How your fingers grow loose,
when you're trying to hold onto a handshake,
because you're too busy trying to hold onto our attention long enough for us to notice that it's hard for you to hold onto anything,
how you walk...
As if no one would notice it if you tripped over your own tongue right now,
the way your hair falls.
The pertainance between your breathing and the last time you cried over something more than the ending of a movie,
how your mouth does not seek water before you speak because you do not feel your words are alive anymore,
how if I died...
Right now...
And became casket trash,
you'd label it as an interesting day instead of changing your life even though you, too, know how easily good people die,
how you look at us through dryness.
How you break your eyeballs against the world trying so hard to see the beauty in it,
how you stop...
And breathe...
As if something someone said made you go "Hmmm..." just long enough for your to re-find your attention span right before drifting off into a thought about how my lungs can carry so much debris and dust for me to cough up this trash with these symbols breathed back into it from the times I, too, may have cried over something more than the ending of a movie.
I like you because you don't know the miracle you are.
You are like turning air into gold, and I would cry over you too if that concept was not from the ending of a movie,
you are made up of ninety-three percent of particles(you are made up, ninety-three percent, of particles) known as stardust,
and you live under a sun that one day will heat and pressurize itself into a planet sized diamond,
and yet you do not try to touch it.
And yet you act like you don't find home more int he mouth of the sky than the mouth of other people,
I like you because you know self-control in the way you hurt yourself to make sure others can't,
you remind me of the beauty in a pedantic world,
you are a rose petal on concrete,
the wedding ring at the other end of a kiss for a kid, who you thought wouldn't treat you right, now three years and three months ago,
and most of all, my highness,
my liege,
and to whom I am forever indebted for this presence,
I like you because you don't know how to like yourself sometimes.
I saw it in the way you stopped.
As if you thought... That this broken open hermit actually had something,
anything at all, to offer you.