Walnuts

Like walnuts, 
I’m allergic to liars: 
they make my tongue sharp 
and violent, 
so believe me when I tell you, 
I adore you. 
And by that, 
of course 
I mean your words are 
the soundtrack 
behind which I wash my dishes, 
and sort too small socks. 
I have a tendency to break things: 
coffee mugs, 
pictures frames, 
Styrofoam cups 
not quite emptied of liquid, 
so trust me when I tell you 
that you are not broken. 
There is nothing wrong with you 
that a fresh coat of paint 
and a few screws couldn’t fix, 
which is to say 
there is no skin as soft 
as the skin behind your earlobe, 
and the moons 
underneath your fingertips 
are all the light 
I will ever need 
in the darkness.