when i tell you that i love you
i do not love you with just a heart,
i love you with unsteady hands,
hands that grip your hands,
with fingers skimming
every bit of skin they can.

i love you with a faulty brain,
a brain that learns you to love you,
without the capacity to love myself.

i love you with lungs;
i’m screaming at the top of them,
how i love you so much
that if you were a cigarette,
i’d let you turn them black.

i love you with eyes,
eyes feasting on the view
like i’ve been colorblind
to reds and greens and blues
and now i’m seeing rainbows.

i love you wholeheartedly
but never with just a heart;
i love you with every organ,
each bone, and all my body parts.