Stoplights

Updated: Mar 28, 2020

The only thing holding in my mind is your face bathed in red, shadows outstanding and emphasizing the curve of your jaw, punctuated by plumped lips.

When the light turns to green, there's something somewhere, maybe a tiny voice, whispering that I need to respond; but instead I'm sinking deeper into the sparkle of light and hope bouncing off of your open brown eyes, gazing up at me.

I'm far too busy memorizing the lines around your almond shaped eyelids, the ones that crease when you grin. There's a glow behind you and I'm shivering, struck wordless at this silhouette- a mess of ringlet curls, drawing imaginary scribbles against the window.

I want to touch, I want to brush, to feel, to process, to understand what I'm learning.

Each time I fixate on your subtle freckles, or notice the tiny dimples around your mouth, my world opens up, intriguing me to understand everything in a new way.


I once despised the color green, the exact shade of the stoplight covering my dashboard now; I would scratch and scrub with soap after even touching it, trying to wash away the fear it symbolized to me;

but this time I drink it in without hesitation and it illuminates your porcelain skin.

The light emphasizes every tiny shadow, every little feature that I grow increasingly infatuated with.

Again, I want to touch- and then I wonder if you will notice my counting; if you'll notice how careful- no- intentional that I am about using all of my fingers evenly when I frame your jaw with my hand.