sitting here.

I am just
sitting here, longing to venture out into the
fresh rain. I hear it pour against the windows and lash against my
door. How I long to welcome him in. In from the cold,
in to the frozen depths of my heart.

I am just
watching him, sitting on the ground outside, picking up the pebbles
on the driveway, one by one. His hair drips against his
sodden cheek. His fingers brush the dirt from yet
another paving stone.

I am just
singing to myself, here, watching from my encased window;
humming a lullaby I've never heard. I wonder if he can
hear my song, for soon to sleep will his drooping head go.
Sung to sleep by my soft lullaby, drifting off to slumber to my slowly
dancing tune.

ode to a beautiful man

He is beautiful. Each line of his
etched face has been carved by my fingers;
I feel him now; soft and warm beneath
my skin. Deep in concentration, the
creases upon his forehead, and the hands
in rapid motion; writing, writing. His hands
move through his hair, and the sigh of a weary
day flows from his aching neck, his back, his
shoulders. He rubs his eyes with the balls of his
hands, and his exhaustion lets his wandering gaze
fall upon me. He is beautiful.