I tilt my head to look more into his eyes,
I like how tilting is more, it’s the most I know.
I am twenty. I know how to tilt into eyes,
I know how to remember when I want to:
the younger sisters of October, a middle name,
a maiden name, a stepfather.
I like how he repeated words after me, trusting my pronunciation.
More felt like a soft gaze, a gazeless gaze, a drishti, from one chair to the next,
A small squint gaze… see, I am listening.
Because you can never look at someone too much when you are listening.
A gaze with no purpose
like pushing marbles into softened butter.
I tilt my head the other way, still listening.
The west coast only asks that he never stops reading;
a tilt into how he was raised. I’d recognize that tilt too.
It’s the most I know.