Sixth Sense.

Do you think that I’m blind?

That I don’t see your eyes flicker from the fire,

or the way your mouth curves like a secret—

my crescent moon in the dark?

Do you think that I’m deaf?

That I don’t hear your breath hitch when I speak your name,

no matter the tale—

or how your voice drips honey,

a chord tuned only for me?

Do you think I can’t smell?

That I don’t breathe you in when you’re near,

or that your cologne doesn’t haunt the room

long after you’ve gone?

Do you think that I’m numb?

That I don’t feel your hand brush mine in passing,

or your lips graze my ear

as you pull away,

your goodbye barely a whisper?

Do you think I can’t taste?

That I don’t remember the shape of your kiss—

slow and salted on my tongue—

leaving me starving

when it ended?

For all of these senses,

there still remains one.

Do you think I’ve got any common sense left?

Because somehow,

that’s the only thing I lose

whenever it comes to you.