To lay with my head on your lap, was all I ever really wanted do.                                                              ­                                                                 ­                                                 
                                                                ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­        A place where I can be safe.                                                            ­                                                                 ­                                                    A place where I can be warm.      
                                                     ­                                                                 ­                                                  Somewhere I can let every care float away from my mind.

When I am with you, even breathing has a sweetness, to it, that I can't begin to describe.

Silver ferns grow in a meadow of furiously bright flora,
Cosmos,
Freesia,
Roses of red and white,
Grow freely,
Wild below the pristine marble pedestal sitting center the clearing,
Within,
A,
Delicately wound cage calmly sits a equally small bird,
Breathing in the sweetness of the meadow,
Fluttering peacefully,
Their talons rest atop the door,
Of,
Its Gilded Cage.

The boy who clicks off the light, reads on the couch, to let sleep consume me-- or who reads beside me, metal-frames dipping low
while his eyes pour over the page.

The boy who tucks me in, acquiescing the blanket softer than peach fuzz-- like the ambrosial peaches his grandmother gifted him in the winter and he shared sweet.

The boy who always makes sure to kiss me good-bye
and fills the room with jazzy notes-- because they represent me,
though he never liked jazz much at all before.

The boy who asked me to wake him if I go somewhere because he'd prefer me to remain beside him, but he understands I have things I need to do, so he cannot always wake beside me,
a weight he can handle.

It does not match the boy who told me he does not love me,
though he likes me, and I am haunted by hollow translations
that force me to delicately dance around a swear word in the
English language like "love".

It does not match the boy who said we wouldn't have much of a relationship without ***, and I am haunted by uncertainties of my convenience that force me to stumble with the hope that our
past does not define our present.

How I feel about you, through my actions, through my words, are truer than any logic, but that might not matter
because the boy does not want to hear words that have
a weight greater than he can handle.

I taste the garden
Of Eden in your sweet lips
Hold me, your creature!
Take me into your strong arms
Softly. Never let me go!

My sweet beloved
Whispered a poem to my ear
It was spilled perfume
On a collection of shells
It was the bright star
That softly kissed the mountain
A guardian angel
To the dark night of the soul
How sweet is my beloved!