The way the sunrise sets the sky on fire at dawn,
or the silence of the woods at 3am.
The way fingertips feel on bare skin,
or the sleepy weight on my eyes after reading too many pages.
The smell of fire in the threads of my clothes,
or the laughter of children echoing from dead-end streets.

I overflow with words for the things I love most;
their graceful presence so simple, so understood.

But you walk up behind me and
your fingers trace the muscles in my back and
your breath settles into my skin and
you whisper, "Where have you been?"



And I have no words beautiful enough to describe that.