You are fresh dewy grass, you
are crisp and clean, spotless.
You are alabaster rock,
tall and withstanding.
Your eyes are cool, cool blue,
gleaming razor arrows of ice and soul.
Your thin lips curl up in a smile, parched,
yet radiate sunshine warmth.
Slender hands, long fingers full of grace
curve familiarly and move to a rhythm
of countless sleepless nights.
Tomes and tomes of stories are spoken,
shattering silence sans words.
Your eyes are closed, pools of blue
enveloped by the deepest lids,
like mountains swallowing the sun at dusk.
Face cast in fathomless serenity,
that stray dark curl across your forehead
betrays the geyser of emotions within.
Through this inner turmoil of yours, I sit,
silent, solemn, hoping,
that in your thought of thoughts
I emerge,
an idea to genius,
muse to master,
woman to man.
