philophobia

tummy

It doesn't compute- 

how is it that, 

you really, truly, 

can't see yourself the way I do? 

You say that you're not, 

attractive, 

that people don't really see you as anything, 

special. 

The way your eyes are brown, 

yet they're caramel and cofee and chocolate, 

mixed together into a swirling mess of hazelnut. 

I can see everything in your eyes- 

f e e l, 

you make me feel. 

The way you start to tense as I grip at your shirt, 

cool hands against the steaming skin, 

you laugh- 

you're too warm for my wandering fingers. 

Arms, 

muscled and smooth, 

wrapped around my shoulders and waist, 

comforting the shivering insecurities, 

hiding them- 

safely. 

The bit of skin between your ribs and hip bones,

the expanse of your chest and collar bones- 

I like your tummy, 

flat as it is. 

It's a soft part of you, 

a part I feel the need to uncover- 

a part I love- 

like you.