I wonder what it would feel like,
with a lover's heart beating against mine,
the natural sweetness of the oils in her hair,
her hand, perhaps with one scar or another
and chipped nail paint--touching my cheek,
and her breath alive and endearing
with warm air, petite lungs breathing easily,
and maybe with a reflexive glance upward to me
flashing brilliantly beautiful
in a brief moment of thoughtlessness where the reality is
she's surrendered her very being
without intending to and without regret,
for she feels safe enough not to hold her heart
in her own hands, and I safe enough
to let her hold mine, and I tell her
that I've known no greater joy than to give her
everything I am.

It must be so much more beautiful
than wrapping my fingers around the hand of a fantasy,
which in my desperate grip crumples
like the paper on which I drafted
her every perfect detail.