If the eyes are the window to the soul,

One might think these are only slightly ajar.

Though the gust cuts through the shallow opening,

It’s your intensity that captures the moment.

And wow, by the way, you take my breath away.

With your crackling fire inside, you’d think

All the world might condensate on the pane

…but it slides off, bit by icy bit.

Make room for convection

Your warmth might be perfection

And your touch might just send

The right tingle, down the right spine.

 

This book you picked up might be

A bit more beat up than the cover

Might suggest, and I must confess

That this table of contents never

Had a second set of silverware,

Or even napkins for that matter.

But we can eat with our hands

Feeding our hearts to each other

Like apples, ripe like our future

And crisp like your smile,

And, and we can’t possibly get enough.

 

Well then, my dear. It’s time,

To swallow that lump in your throat

And might just hear that same, sweet melody

When you dance into my thoughts and fears.

But we don’t need to shut the window;

It’s warm inside this house we’ve built stone

By thrown stone. Our fire feeds

Itself on the memories grown

The experiences owned,

And the discovered truth, that,

Not once more will you ever be, alone.