He told me
Not with his lips,
And, God, I loved to watch those lips
How they formed words with silky casualty,
Planting careful grenades
Softly ticking until his absence.
It wasn't in the way he looked at me,
But, Jesus, those eyes
Lashes stronger than hurricane winds
With strength to whip,
Not with his hands,
Even when they couldn’t stay at his sides any longer,
Passion does that to a man’s limbs
Sends them flinging and pointing and carrying more of the conversation than he ever could with words alone.
A long-limbed tree whipping in hurricane lashes.
You were so beautiful
My kind of beautiful