Why haven't I written a poem about kissing him yet?

Maybe because when his lips met mine they took my words with them
And maybe words can't describe his lips but his lips
Are made up of words I just can't make out
Because I just want to make out with them

His lips are music humming a melody,
A warm, vibrating rhythm
Lighting up my soul with fire
And I feel as though I'm glowing

His lips are not just words but a whole set
Of lyrics
Singing to my heart

We are the ink lines
Tangled together to spell out a word
That I just can't put my finger on
I'm sure it's somewhere on his lips

Now that I know
You feel this too
I'm at a loss for words

I'm stuck in that moment
Of butterfly bliss
All since my feelings were heard

I'm still picturing that second
Your arm brushed mine
I'm still looking up at your smile

But I don't mind it
I've waited to find such
A sweet place to stay for a while

It snowed in Louisiana today
And stayed for a while
We were encompassed in white
I in your smile

We drove the slick roads
Passed houses on ice
You laughed at my wander
How I almost cried twice

And who would I want to spend
The day with but you
You made this experience
More than something new

The snow was fleeting
As it left in a day
I'm okay with all that,
I just hope that you stay

Everyone is excited about snow
But here I am at 4am
Wondering if I'll see you later
And if you'll accept
That invitation to lunch

There is something exhilarating about
These first few moments
Not knowing
If the rain will turn to sleet or snow
If you'll say yes or no

This Louisiana cold
Leaves me needing warm
My chilly heart is yearning
But will you do it harm

Just please, don't keep me waiting

I write to breathe.

I don't know if it's the smell of the coffee or the warmth of the cup

But there's something about this coffee shop that heals

Complete strangers scattered among booths and bars, chatting over a charging laptop

Scribbling passionately in a notebook

Different jobs and different lives

Dressed in scrubs, a suit, sweats

I want to converse with them all

These living stories

Because through these people I discover more and more about who I am and where I'm supposed to be

There's something about this coffee shop that's home

When did poetry replace sleep for me?
And since when do I write about people before they say goodbye?

There's something about the words
That describe you
And how I wish they would pour out of me all at once

But right now, all I can say is

Hello

And the next few pages will tell the rest