It’s even the way your teeth are crooked that I appreciate,
your little overlapping pieces, deliciously flawed like an old
wooden staircase of you and your tattoos, which I can’t describe
but which I see when I close my own eyes. And the way you touch me
so lovingly, though you’re afraid of the word. A thing that would bother me
normally but you’re not someone who can be easily bounced off of and 
onto another. There’s something in you like glue and I am rubber
melting on the bright scorching surface of you. 
                        

Tonight, it feels good just to feel bad. Lie 
in the bed and remember the shape of you
in it—my head on your shoulder and your
skeletal bat tattoo tucked, sleeping underneath.

While you’re running through the high points
of an upcoming presentation on echolocation, 
I begin to find you in bed—small clicks of my
tongue bounce off you with my eyes closed
and I star-fish my hand over your face.

See, I knew all along you were right here…

You try to argue that humans, by definition, 
cannot echolocate, but I am firm. I remember 
a CBS special. It’s rare but not unprecedented. 

Now that you’re too far for my small noises
to reverberate off your face, I don’t know 
what’s worse—if you remember or forget 
the time I echolocated you in bed.