I want to learn everything about you. The way the sun rays seep through your off-blue printed curtains and fall upon your caramel-skinned face. I want to memorize the pattern of goosebumps that begin to form upon your bare frame, as the torrent of your mother’s old-fashioned shower begins to dampen your recently cut hair. The way you put on your sweater and fasten your laces, just as you’re about to sip the now cold coffee from our matching tea cups. I want to spend Tuesday afternoons piling up our books of poetry into a tower taller than the both of us, while you tell me about your firsts. First book you read, first word you spoke, first kiss you shared, first piece of art, first period, first time you shaved, first time your mother hit you, first time you ran away from school, first everything. And then, Thursday evenings, studying the cracks on each of your palms and the rough edges of your skin. I want to fill your life with the kind of colour you wear each day on your lips. I want to learn about you in the way I read my books, swallowing each word and then feeling them swim through my blood.