she likes people who use heavy words, but never sterile ones. 

the kind of lips that taste like worn pages,

and eyes like the Atlantic.

she likes blood moons
and busy hands
and the boys who never bothered to ask her major.

she likes the breaths that sit heavy on his skin,
and the kind of Paris that lives between the walls of high school classrooms.

and I'm sorry darling,

but she never much liked the Pacific.