Gin Poem

If I could, I would buy you all the gin
in the world. It lets you know
that I think about you when doing things

like pushing a squeaky cart through
the grocery isle. Through the stickiness
of the floors, I watch the symmetrical patterns
roll past and think of the way

your eyes line up perfectly, even though
I read in Time magazine that
we are slightly asymmetrical. You try
not to be, though, and so for the entire day

I try to make things even. I buy you gin
and diet coke, so you have things to drink
when you curl up into a small corner
of my threadbare couch, waiting for me to come
and make the other end balanced.

You called me your seesaw, and I watch you blink
over and over through those long lashes
and perfectly alligned eyes. I didn't listen
because I was watching, and you moved
to grab a bottle of water, because it, and red bull,
were the only things I had

at the time. I move quickly, and need things
to keep up with me. But you pull my hips
into you and whisper quietly, wetly, in my ear
so I have to slow down, and match your rising and falling chest
in order to listen. You grow your hair long,
measuring against your collarbone. I keep mine short,
because I can put on a suit and shower
in ten minutes. On my first day of work,
you move my tie three centimeters. They might notice

you say. But you are the only one
who takes the time to look.