No
wonder
poets fall
for each other!
Words, a knowing art,
like brilliant suns of day,
shining truth of mind and heart.
They must be careful what they say!
The fall is swift, though it lands in clouds
where poets dream their languid days away...

I lean my head on the windowpane,
and watch the snowflakes swirl
and plummet to the ground;
your room is warm and smells like Earl Grey tea
and mahogany;
words spill out from cluttered shelves
and pour out of half-open drawers;
I sit in your favorite chair,
all alone;
my brittle fingers,
with their hollow bones,
search for pieces of you,
hidden away in nooks
and corners,
in leather bound volumes
and lingering notes of Bergamot.

The clock is ticking loudly,
like always,
and I sit and watch the door.

All my fears
All my doubts
All my insecurities
are put to bed
when you look at me