Our days are tiny poems
winding around the
curve of morning.
I am writing you
constantly noting down
the way your face
lilts when you laugh
rhyming your smile
so I can remember it easily.
We gather secrets
so we can
write them on river stones
to toss mid stream
then watch the ripples
bring them back to us
reflecting truth
in the shimmering wavelets.
When your back is turned
I scrawl myself upon your neck
my name
over and over
a litany of me
on you
till you are more than my story
my aching fable
more than the sum of
fumbling words.
My fingers
create strophes
upon you
and
your skin
sings me out
in poem song.
2 comments:
This is a scrumptiously romantic poem. Women love having this worshipful adoration showered upon them. Your wife is a lucky woman.
Tis true *preens*
lol
worshipful adoration, I wouldn't have gone quite that far *grins*
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