There are so many parts of you
the way you walk through a busy store
more of a sway than a shove, head tilted to one side
your hair, waves of color that the wind catches, or
tied up in a ponytail, balled up in a cap
your skin, the color of expensive dishes
except your face, a shade of rose, unless you are out of breath
there are so many parts of you
I could tell you about
if you knew I was alive