She said, ” I long for something deeper than that of which resides in a kiss…”
So he opened his soul and let his poems unfold…
While his touch was as cold as a rain-washed window pane, they were not the same.
For the window, she could see through and through.
As for when she looked at him she never knew.
Somedays he would show her the sun.
Other days she wished to run.
Some nights he would be her guiding moon
Other nights were over far from soon.
Still, she stayed for he was her reflection.
Who am I?
What a silly question.
On so often asked.
Yet so rarely answered.
For we are an ever-changing sack of cells held up by brittle bones and cobblestones.