I had never envied
the water from the shower-head
that gets to cascade down
and touch every piece
of your frame

I didn't long to be
the sheets that get to
feel your breath slow
as you drift to sleep

I never saw the use
for a photographic memory
until I watched you
from the kitchen table

the sun shining through
my oversized t-shirt
your silhouette
perfectly outlined
as you sipped your tea

I swore that I wanted
to be that teacup
nestled softly in your hands
and against your lips

She's in the kitchen
(close the door)
just mixin' up some metaphor;
a true conundrum
through and through
and through to me and thus to you.

Her humble hunger
(forest's slumber)
thunders 'neath a wilting tune;
tuned to too many
to count without
a thought within.

She must profess
(but shall confess)
to any who will listen;
closely she holds
a tragic history
mostly mystery to most.

She solves my soul
(I deny that hole)
which she still fills;
overflowing always
with such unrelenting joy
that is My Love.