Don't you know
I adore you?

Not so much as a whole
Because really you are a half,
My better half,
That fifty (or so) percent
That I was missing
Without quite knowing
(Or seeming to need),
But more so as
Segments,
Fragments,
Pieces,
Each making up
The whole half
Of who you are.

The tiny, least of all insignificant
Compartments
That comprise you,
Little details painting
A bigger picture,
A work I couldn't
Even have dreamt
In my most restless,
Vivid, unconscious state,
Much less imagined that
I would lay
My eyes
And hands
And heart on.

Little things.

Your hands running
Through your hair
As you speak to me,
The way you send
My mind running every day
With thoughts of you,
The way you sent
My heart running
The day I met you,
When I knew, somehow,
Who and what you were,
Who and what we would be,
Even as everything else
Faded away around us
So that I could see only you.
Where my scope had been
So broad before,
Now narrowed
And tailored
To the emotion of your eyes
And the honey of your voice
And the warmth of your touch,
All betraying you as a man
Hurt so many times,
So deeply,
So ruthlessly,
So relentlessly,
That opening up again
Was your only option,
With what left to lose?

Significant things.

Your eyes upon me
With emotions I cannot read,
Only speculate,
While you observe me as though
I am the only woman
You have ever had, ever known,
Though I know you have had
And known many
Before me.
You look at me as though
I had come to save you,
When I am no superhero
Like the ones in your comics,
And could never aspire to be,
But rather, a normal citizen,
Come to believe in you, to
Hold you, to
Care for you, to
Show you the sort of
Gentleness and compassion
That you have been so starved for,
That comes so naturally to me
When you are in my presence.

Passionate things.

Your hands in my hair
And lips at my ear,
Hot breath raining
Seduction and fire,
Scandalous promises
And blatant temptation
Upon me,
Endearing only falling
From your mouth.

Your body and mouth
Against mine
In a fever
In a thirst
In a heat
We cannot seem
To quell,
The only sickness
For which there is
And
For which I want
No cure,
Tormenting me
In beautiful, twisted ways,
Turning wrought iron
Into tarnished silver,
Dimmed to the rest
Of the world
But just beautiful
Enough for you.

The things you have done to me
I cannot speak of.
The things you are doing to me still
I cannot run from.

God help me,
I am so enamored
That control is beyond me
And sense is without me
And a fire whose embers
Were all but doused,
Consumes me,
Is everything I am.

What was first instinct to run
Is now a reflex to stay.

There is something
About a man
Who changes everything
By staying exactly the same,
Whose mere presence,
Still as water,
Shatters your reality
And opens a chasm
In your world
Of proportions you never
Believed in,
Much less expected.
A deep fissure
Not to be filled,
But for the two of you
To jump in together,
Knowing that neither one
Will come out without the other.

There is something about a man
Who almost wasn't yours.
And that you somehow are allowed to hope
Will always be.

There is something about a man.

Something about mine.