The smell of rain at dusk, a scent so familiar
it takes me back to the countryside of another yesterday;
the taste of your lips grazing mine, still moist,
and the butterflies linger after you’re gone;
the sound of your laughter mingling with mine,
a lava lamp bubbling, just waiting to explode;
when the irises of your eyes darken and expand,
and I can feel the passion skim over your skin;
when I hold my breath as truth slips through my fingers
and I’m unsure whether you’ll catch me as I fall;
the feel of your fingers grasping mine because you know
that I don’t speak a love language, though it flutters under my skin;
soft music on strings that loses itself in the ridges of my auricle,
the smooth bow whispering sweet-nothings into my ear;
your voice when you say my name an octave too low,
a murmur that leaves me breathless for words;
a poem so well written it takes on a life of its own
and I let it take my breath away in its stanzas.
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