There was a mystery behind that sigh. A fighting rolling ocean hidden in
those lashes like the up and down of a seagull perched atop a marker.
There is bottomless significance in those
Painted eyes,
lidded with the sort of blue that true cerulean hopes for.
Expectations. Roosting on the hope of perfect answers. To imperfect
questions.
You march through the path of a gale with only your galoshes
and a smile,
and the knowledge that the storm will be weathered before you are.
I would give you hope and a place to live and stitch you to my side in
idyllic tailor fashion breaking what may be my only heart. If only you
where meant for me.

You have a saintly smile,
A grin that could pitch heaven into hell if it could see. You alone, and
there I am
With the handle in my hand. What is it that you want, is the question
That races through the course of me, exhausting all the pathways and
spilling out the wishing wells of my soul. Keep me close to you like the
fabric that clings to your form
And I will sit like a snowflake, crystalline and clean as I melt a little
more each day.