Every gesture,
From every glance to every touch.
Was thoroughly apart of her.
A celebration of confetti scattered about her eyes.
A ****** of adoration.
Her toes bare, gripping the bottom of her shoes through her socks.
An extension of what's felt inside still unseen.
The glow of her skin.
The mess made in her eyes without need for a dust pan nor push broom.
The fluid and grace of being alive without restriction.
She made love outside for all to see.
The wisp of cold air made warm by her sigh.
The door to her now open, doorstop wedged in the crease beneath the door.
In a look exchanged between the thousands of days between her eyelids.
She uttered please don't make slam the door
This is what makes it sacred