You’ve got a toothpick smile — sharp enough to pick
the words from my lips as we kiss, my darling.
Two roadmaps curve across your eyes —you see
exactly where you’re headed, and still, I hope you
trace your way back to me. As there’s a picture on my
ceiling — a memory sketch of you that walls can't help
but echo. Even in silence, this house whispers your name.
We're paired like bus wires — tethered to our thoughts,
transporting the weight of our unspoken luggage.

You’re cruel with beauty, closed off like a bookshop on
a Sunday —but I still read your body language on the
spine of your sighs. While the anchor of this love dives
deep, and I hold fast — even if your tides pull me under.
Your face — inked in my mind like a permanent marker
refusing to fade.

Finally, you’re an orchid waiting in the sun, and I,
the patient gardener, learning to love each petal as it
unfolds; knowing that with each new bloom, we both
grow. So if I must wait — let it be beneath your seasons.
Let me turn with your weather, and stand still long
enough for you to call this heart your home.