Hot coals sparkle in her eyes

As she pulls him in,

To that place where beating hearts

And passion-filled mouths

Meet at ninety degrees. Closer

Than they've ever been.

He wants to speak, words

Come tumbling across his tongue

But they stop there,

Transfixed and maybe frightened

By the silence they are greeted with.

There is no room here,

In the millimeters of love

They begin to build together,

For talk, and speech comes

Only through her hands.

He must not be impatient

Or expectant, this is her time

-and she has all the time in the world-

To write poetry with the kisses

She gives and she takes.

In the end, he can only lie

With his soul stripped bare and caught

In the clutches of hers,

Their grip so perfect that

He becomes a prisoner there

On his own will. He knows now

What she always knew,

This is what he wants.