a bouquet would consist of the flowers you love,

so I will tumble into the ditch, where all the marsh marigolds bloom for you.

does a voice ruin the wind?

I worry about the words I will say, forgetting that silence is charged with meaning,
and is easy to share with you.

in the rain I feel restored

you say,
walk out to the view with me before we go,

and I forget the drone of cities and am looking at it, with you

Under the sun we are beautiful beings.
I want to spend my moments in this light with you

I want to write a song for you but you are the strummer,
the player,
the gentle wrist flicking up and down,
the echo in the cavity,
the vibration of the strings
and the voice that sings.

there is a quality subtler than kindness,
though they are connected.
quieter, lovelier, beautiful to notice and reciprocate
if you can see it in those eyes,
that smile, the look across the room

barely platonic, but some kind of love without tension,
a frequency that hums in beholders if you listen and reply
in your own way.

I admire this quality and the people it belongs to;
I only ever see them in passing, mostly,
and in fleeting moments I am enveloped by the warmth, the belonging, this lasting tryst of hearts that stay connected