It's that half smile of yours
the one that you make
when you're making me moan
and you're enjoying yourself
simply by making me enjoy you.
Your eyes
so concentrated
but so calm
and they look at me
like they're reading my mind
like everything I'm thinking
is written in my eyes.
Your hands move over me
like they're retracing a familiar place
like they've been there many times before
but still have so much more to explore.
You know me too well
and not at all.
You're comfortable
and amazed
all at the same time.
You love me the most
when we're all alone.


*s.mndi

She said people were seasons,
and when I first met her, I couldn't agree more.  
After getting to know her, I wished that I didn't.
Her ex-lovers were Winter, and her eyes were a shade of Spring.
I could see the vulnerability of a car crash
swimming in each fountain trapped behind her emeralds.
She was beautiful in the way that could cause suicides,
and fix spider-webbed windshields after each collision of,
“Are you okay,” and, “I’m fine; I promise.”

Every story was Winter, and she was always left alone in the snow.
Mauve lips mouthed words that silently whispered,
"When is this too much? When are you going to leave?"

People are patterns,
and all she knew was the tessellation of temporary love and permanent loss.
Her hands trembled as she looked down.
She was in transit; moving after each hope of home fell apart.
And I wanted to kiss her like the world was falling apart.