I can tell it’s you by your syntax. The properly placed commas like your hands on either side of my face. You cap my head like bookends, like tight ear muffs attached to the ends of a coiled piece of plastic – mimicking a headband, and me with all my rambly side-note phrases. See. Though I always preferred the en-dash, similar to the one your forearms made as you covered my eyes and surprised me with that painting. Your subject is always close to its object. No room for confusion; you are powerful and purposeful with your words. You liked to lay your head in my lap. You are my full stop to my less-than and greater-than knees. You reminded me of how bad I was at math as you smiled up at me. I was so bad with numbers you always had to leave the tip, write down the birthdays and anniversaries on our fresh desk calendars each year. On silly holidays that celebrate love: Easter, Christmas, Thanksgiving, Valentine’s Day, well all of the holidays, you’d test me by giving me three separate bunches of flowers and ask me at random how many I’d gotten that day. You kissed me and smiled whether I got it wrong or right. I always got it wrong. I was never good on the spot. Or with commas. I put them where I stop when reading my sentences back to myself, aloud. And the spots on your back. I counted them once and one hardly qualified for a full numeral so we settled on 14 and a half freckles on your back. I notice your sentences and you notice my math, how lucky are we for that? I know you’ll forgive my similes, my lacking, drawn-out metaphors because you know I can’t write when I write about you.