He holds my hand,
And it burns,
But I love the tingling sensation,
That stretches from my fingertips,
To my toes,
And back up,
Over and over again,
And I love how he turns,
And says my name,
As if I'm the most precious thing he has ever held.
I love how he allows himself,
To open up to me,
Rather than hide,
Like he'd been doing for so long before.
I love how he smiles,
When he looks at me and tells me,
That I'm everything to him.
I love how he doesn't seem sad,
To the point of depression,
And I can't help but wonder,
If it's because of me.
YOU ARE READING
A Poet's Love Story: A Poet's Collection
PoetryLife, Does not wait, For you. It stirs your emotions, And reforms them, Into wings of flight, And it tests, Weather or not, You will open the cage, And allow yourself, To give up, Or if you will keep the wings calm, And continue to live, And underst...
