Today I held a magnifying glass up to a crumb.
Unidentifiable, even magnified at 12 times its size. I
couldn’t tell what larger piece of food it had fallen
from. But there I sat, inspecting the thing until I forgot
how long I'd been sitting there.

Then I thought about the time you yanked laughter
from my lungs. It was like coughing purple and yellow
paint onto the floor. I knelt and squished the colors
between my fingers until the paint started to dry.

And in the week after that you touched me and I
melted beneath you completely. I became a pulsing
ocean you hovered over; my moon, steady, and
pulling my waves toward you. 

Yesterday you were the first thing I saw when I woke
up. Squinting at sunlight and mouth sour with sleep, I
sat up. You likened my hair to a lion’s mane and told
me you loved it just like that. 

I think you look at me through a magnifying glass.