She laughed out a challenge and pulled
capturing his heart with her hand and lifting it
like a marionette with aorta strings out of his chair.
Her golden hair, his mud brown hair, their skin bare
as the day they were born.

He brushed against her, and she pulled
his heartstrings again, dancing away, still laughing,
her voice the wind-chimes on his porch; the summer sun
could not shine so bright as her eyes... or was that the marionette
talking? His strings were sore from the movement.

She brushed against him, and he pulled her close
and they felt the strings snap and shivered
in the wintry chill from the bedroom window.
He closed the shades, and he pulled her close,
and she let the strings fall from her hands.
The summer sun could not outshine
the fiery lust in both their eyes.
Their passionate cries cried out in time
with the gentle cadence of a loving rhyme.