My lover is
     strong, kind and tender,
but when he held me in his arms
he confessed that he felt
                                          less of a man
because we were clothed only in
vulnerability
but hadn't known each other yet.
                   "Any other guy would jump at this opportunity" he said.
"But you're not any other guy,"
I said.
"And that's why I'm laying here"

he doesn't know it
but when i lay in his bed
my mind is stringing together
adjectives and airy phrases,
trying unsuccessfully to
pin down the emotions
he breathes into me.

he doesn't know it
but when i kiss his skin,
i imagine my lips
peppering his chest
neck and arms with
ink stains that morph
into words like "lover"
and "darling".

he doesn't know it
but the smile he shares
with me under the covers
is pressed firmly
into the corners
of my heart,
begging to be immortalized
in words.

In the night,
I saw his mind
bury him in a
dark place.
        A place that none
        of my kisses or whispers
        could pull him out of.
Yet all my heart
could say was,
*"My lover,
come back to
my arms."

her heart beat too fast for him,
too hard and too loud.
he loved to dance to her rhythm,
but his arms could not hold
onto her for long,
could not stand the wildness
radiating from within her.
so she held her breath,
she rejoiced less and was quiet.
her bounding heart slowed to
a whisper
and quickened only when
beheld by him.
she missed the feeling of life
in her chest always,
and soon she herself
became a whisper,
enveloped in the cool silence
of his arms
where she slowly turns
instead of dances.