Do you not see greenery,
as green as my eyes can be,
growing from the iris?
Or flowers that bloom
in bouquets for you
around a heart so sodden
with liquid love they need
only suckle to sustain?

In my hands, is there no crag
made by their rough lines
that you remember would ravish
you on nights much like all others, like all
of the nights in eight months long
that I haven't touched you?
Or seen or held you.

Did it scare you away,
feeling the sea foam of my eyes
bathe you in salt and sorrow?
The ocean can be chaotic,
moments of instability, but the sea is
more beautiful than it is expansive,
more dazzling than it is terrifying
if you only hold on and wait
for the crashing waves to calm.

Words mean more than you think;
you felt bliss, you said it, and bliss,
it doesn't come from nothing.
I'd like to believe that bliss
results from seeing the world
in another person.

That's why I'm asking.