introductions

I am from the way you let your hand 

linger on the edge of the table 

like a stray strand of hair 

hiding in the folds of your elbow.

I am from the picture of you

coming out of the dressing room

as if you were a flower stem 

lodged in a wide-mouth vase.

I am from the time we ate green grapes 

on a purple blanket while the sunshine

made itself into a cotton ball 

I use to clean my face with at night.

I am from the silence of your thoughts

after we came home from the grocery store

with overpriced nectarines

and a head of lettuce still dripping.

I am from a toothbrush losing 

its bristles in December

and the shocking warmth

of something cold in my mouth.