Dear Heart, remember how he smiled
His eyes fixed on yours
This quiet trembling you feel now
In the darkness and solitude
Of the drive away does not compare
To the tremble in his fingers as
He counted your goosebumps
Remember too how your lips curved and
Your hands did not shake as they
Caught and tangled, explored and claimed
No, fragile heart don’t let those memories
Fade even as the sun dims
In the sky and the miles between then and now
Make you shiver.

How I long for heat
To melt beneath
Fierce summer sun and
The intensity of your gaze. 

She loved him best
In late evenings and early monrings
As they sat up sharing words
Composed by favorite authors and new combinations
Of their own invention.

She wanted him most
When their skin touched
She loved to gesture with her hands
Flitting fingertips in the space between them
Coming ever closer to touching and
Like a friendly cat her knee betrayed her affections
Rubbing against his at the slightest chance.

She missed him most 
After tiredness tangled their tongues and
He bid her a sleepy goodbye
Leaving her alone to trip to bed
In the cold sunrise. 

Please don’t fall asleep before
Bidding ‘goodnight’ to me
The softest murmur from your lips
Of sweet dreams is the only pillow
On which my heart can rest easily. 

You won’t see me, you say
As if it’s the simplest thing
To turn your back and eyes
Away—I wish it were as easy
For me but you have invaded
My conscious
Your voice coos in my head
As I stumble through my once-
Favorite novel while blue irises
That now belong to a stranger
Wink down on me from a
Cloudless sky and I can feel your
Breath against my skin at night
But it’s just the wind because
You won’t see me anymore and
I see you everywhere. 

There must be more poetic ways
Than this—
To beg permission to lay
My cheek on your shoulder
And rest.

Be gentle with my words
Cradle them softly on your tongue
As they pass from your eyes
Into your body
The weight of them may
Not seem much
Their worth no greater than
Other better known combinations
Of letters and sentiment
But they are a piece of me
So have a care with how you
Pass them about—
It isn’t kind to be so cavalier
With a girl’s poetry. 

She clapped her hand over his mouth. Her own lips were pressed together in a frown, but laughter still danced in her eyes. He was usually captivated by those eyes—large and with lashes that quickly fluttered. They always gave away in her emotions even when her lips lied to him. Yes, until this moment he would have said that her eyes were his favorite feature. But that was before he felt her hand.

Her soft skin pressing warm and quick against his mouth—effectively silencing the incessant whistling he had harassed her with. Her touch was fire, burning through to his core; heat raced from his face down to his chest bursting there in a mad explosion that made his pulse quicken and every inch of his body tingle. Yet, beneath the heat was a heightened tactile sense. He was aware of every centimeter of delicate touch across his unshaven chin and scarred lip. What wonderful course of evolution and life cycle and scientific advances had led to her hands having the softness of feathers while retaining their so base and human warmth? What great-ancestor had turned from harvesting to higher education so that many descendants later this petite, pale woman might grow up in books and classrooms, working in ways that expanded her mind and used her creativity and preserving her hands to their pristine condition today? 

His mind could only wonder at these processes for so long while his flesh delighted in the feeling of her skin on his skin. The only interest he had in her personal and protracted history that led to these soft hands was selfish. This was skin that was meant to be felt—to be pressed to other skin. How had he not noticed her hands before? Why was he just now privy to her perfect touch—he could drink beauty from this palm and never thirst again.

Unconsciously his lips puckered to kiss her palm. Feeling the movement and misinterpreting the reason, she removed her hand so that he might speak. The loss of her warmth, her softness besieged him even as he became acutely aware of the awkward shape of his lips.

Fearful that she might ascertain the reason behind his gesture he began to whistle again. The same nameless, repetitive tune that had drove her to silence him with a hand over his mouth again. Mentally he begged for her to repeat her gesture while his mind wondered how else he might encourage her soft touch.

I want to learn
Your rituals
The sacred dance
That sways you
Each morning
As you trip from
Bed to shower
And the motions
You make to
Prepare and face
Unfriendly day.