I like people of few words

who only say what is necessary.

I like beaches of broken sea shells,

with sharp edges and hidden treasures.

I like under-ripe bananas.

I like unfinished paintings,

and lop-sided picture frames,

and books that end in the middle of a

sentence.

I like soft tummies.

I like scars that keep memories,

and freckles,

and birth marks,

and stretch marks.

I like oversized knitted jerseys

that smell like someone’s grandma.

I like girls that wear men’s shirts.

I like poems that are a little ambiguous.

I like open ended questions.

I like kisses that taste faintly of cigarette smoke.

I like doors that are left slightly ajar,

and open drawers,

ready to spill their secrets.

I like the smell of bodies on sheets;

of the morning after.

I like over-grown hiking trails,

and gardens that have been left to their own devices.

I like messy journals

with words crossed out.

I like dog-eared books

with notes in margins.

I like chipped toe-nail polish.

I like second hand furniture

with mismatched handles and faded polish.

I like dented bumpers

and broken mirrors.

I like the scratch marks on my wooden floor,

that someone before me made.

I like the idea of things that have stories to tell.