Love poems at three am because I am overwhelmed with it

I am fond of you.
And the parts that you aren’t,
they are melted butter to me.
A questionable coincidence that
the swirls on your temple fall perfectly
in line with my finger, tracing circles.
Round so you can’t tell where it finishes.
I love that it pools across the whole of you,
soft warm safety to bury my face in.
And I feel the very bones of me weaken
in response to a fifth of an inch of space
closing on the peripheries of your vision.
White blue as sharp as tacks left places
I’ll never be able to predict.

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