poetry lives
not just in the dreamy glow of the moon
across your lover's eyes
on a perfect evening, or the
mesmerising game of light
and shadows dancing on
moving waters, through
wooded greens;
no,
poetry lives in
the little things you
don't see and don't say:
the sharp edges of heartbreak, the
magnanimity of forgiveness, the
soft sighs of love that
*won't go away.

I like the way your name sounds,
Rolling off my tongue,
But mostly I'm in love,
With the way you say **mine

Looking at you, I realise
perfection
does exist in this world

My person.

holding you alone
I return to paradise
and home all at once