They say not to build homes
in people, for when they leave
you'll be empty and dry
as a forest creek in July,

but the sun shines from
inside the lining of her skin.
Her crescent moon smile
feels like home.

I've read ink stained pages
of 1000 books, but nothing
compares to the emotions
written across her face.

There's a toad nestled
inside my throat, hopping,
making it hard to ask
her for forever.