Despite the fact that he doesn't drink coffee--
he hates the way it smells--
He sits in whatever coffee shop I am,
And watches me sip my coffee black.
So my soul has decided that this is love,
That this is truly love,
And I never had a say in the matter at all.

Nothing*
        fills the soul
Like the fruit
            of your **womb

Walking in the garden,
I stepped onto the grass
Barefoot,
And revelled in the tingles
On the soles of my feet
That made me smile.

The grass was wet.
Absently, I sat myself down
And felt the grass in my hands...
'The grass is wet,' I thought,
'It feels nice, cool and peaceful,
But water doesn't catch fire...'

*Can the fire inside me burn in serenity?
Or will it burn out my peace
And c
          o
           n
          s
         u
         m
           e
               me?