I'm meant to hold your hand--
the way it curls over mine with
such a tenderness that's enough
to make me smile and leak tears
onto the bundled scarf.

The wind sweeps them away,
I blink up at you and know
the warmth your smile pours--
liquid amber honey that
holds me steady in your gaze,
and yet--
this is a new place.

We have been here for days,
Rushing around on trains
and buses
and cabs
and subways
to all the places humanity treasures--
and I want to experience every moment
with You.

The culture in new places
always feels like a theoretical
until it's experienced...like an outline,
a sketch, a diagram even--
but diagrams don't reflect
the life in your eyes when
you quietly whisper a pun
while the tour guide is guiding
and I have to cover my mouth
or risk the ire of a librarian stare
from whomever might be offended
by a little burst of joy being born.

It started raining on the cobblestone
as we were walking to brunch,
but you brought an umbrella and
sheltered us from being soaked as
some less fortunates skittered through
the streets like animals seeking shelter...
but we are in no rush;
We enjoy the rain, the sound, the smell,
as it melts the scene that should be
painted in watercolor.

I don't imagine I would--
Or even that I could
forget all the little things.
I collect them like seashells or
shiny little rocks, and I
put them in my pockets and they
lift me up as if they weren't little
rocks at all but balloons
not letting my feet
ever touch the ground
floating forever
in this love we've found.