He is the bottle of wine.
His quiet words filling me to the brim...
I may spill over.

Cautious are his fingertips;
Feeling like he's never felt before...
Taking his time.

He is the crisp Autumn breeze;
Welcoming the warmth of heavy fabric.
And gone all too soon.

His wit is automatic.
Intelligence and interest: in tune.
Thoughts do not displease.

He is an early Thursday;
Full of smiles and steaming cups...
Enjoying the stillness.

Thick in kindness like syrup;
Oozing with his sticky brilliance...
And I'm stuck, unafraid.