She is a plume of smoke with no flame;
A song with no discernable chorus.
She looks at me but doesn’t see
Just how much I adore the way
Her eyes turn a different shade of green
When she laughs too hard to speak.
She holds onto my heart so gingerly
That I can only barely feel the grasp
Until she’s out of reach, and then
It feels like a vice, tightening slowly.
By my own hand, my chest caves in.
These thoughts that I have cultivated
Are seeds from which my longing grows.
Her arms are both the sun and rain
That I have welcomed ever since
I left the droughts of January behind
To build my castle in the valley.