tu étudies moi? (are you studying me?)

he digs his thumb into the hollow of my foot

and kneads at the bones

as if my skin will yield fruits


I laugh at it all just to make him smile

(a tender sight, like fingers winding up an apple tree’s bark)

as I mumble nonsense French phrases to a language app


between the glow of life

and a half-forgotten phone screen

(my attention lingers there, in the crinkle under his eye)


he presses inside the layers of me

until the language of love is caught deep

in the fruits that laughter reaps

What are you looking for?