Everything around me is just noise,
white static blinding my senses,
meaningless distractions to the quiet
meant to ease my mind and soften
the thudding of my disarrayed heart.
That heart, which makes its home on my sleeve,
so easily disjointed by the slightest love.
How desperate it must find itself
that it often falls too heavily and too soon
But here again I find myself,
wondering what it would be like
to fall into the easy rhythm of the
lion caged in your chest as it purrs,
the steady thickness beating assuredly
against the hollow shell of my ear.
I wonder at the heady smell of your body
and the way it clung to my skin,
pulling away like sugar strands
when your fingertips slid again my wrist.
What mixture of star dust gives you
the right to such a scent?
How I adore the way you write,
the way you say my name and yet
I find myself wrapped in the insecurities
of the blossoming relationship we share
that you might find the way I write in prose
gaudy or ostentatious and shake your head
though you give me no reason to doubt.