ideal orange peel

He likes my hair wrinkly,
not curly, not slick-
just a mop of hair like doodles
on a burgundy canvas of pillow.

I like his face unshaven
not prickly not bearded-
just a felt sweater to
curl my cheek up with.

Lain out like an oriental rug
night moves over, blankets hover-
entwined, we align and create comfort
for our scared souls.

The rhythm in the backdrop
is like the old man at the coffee shop-
a silent reassurance
of a world beyond our own.

Once over sushi, green eyes
asked why yawns are so contagious-
why the white sticks to one side
of an oreo.

I stared blankly with no reply
and he caught the plummeting
tear from my eye.
Still, I watch with no reply.