You are not from the culture of my men.
You have charm that does not whistle or honk at my features. Instead, you praise the thickness of my thighs with a poem from your own lips.
You do not attempt to impress my father by talking sports. Instead, you listen to him complain about work and prompt him to persist in venting; remembering every detail.
You do not pick the pieces of my broken life and judge their placement. Instead, you have allowed all those experiences to be everything you love about me.
You do not dare bother with other guys in my life, as if they mean to hurt us. Instead, you embrace my personality and encourage human connection.
You welcome every one with a handshake and a thank you, pridefully practicing a language foreign and unnatural to your lips.
You are not entertained by the simple minded, yet care for all the simple pleasure. You stare into the silence and do not dare interrupt it.
You have eyes that split into rays of the sun. Colors that grasp for my brown and highlight your hazel. Laugh lines that could hold fields of flowers. A toothy grin with a suspect of suspense, while you suckle on your bottom lip. Cheeks that have seen repair. Ears that have heard beats of a busted drum. Thin cookie-colored hair that toasted perfectly in your mother’s womb. And a thin frame, not muscular enough to be manly, too tall to be usual, too light to be Latino, but beautiful; so beautiful. And yet not… not of the culture of my men.