Love Like This

I open my eyes and before I can focus
I hear the gentle whirring of the fan.
Slowly I turn my head.
And I find you there laying next to me.

I look at you as if you are a surprise left on my pillow.
By God or some heavenly deliverer.
I comb over your body with my eyes;
Not wanting to touch you yet.

I just want to watch you in your restful slumber.
Gently, I place my hand on yiu face.
and smooth my way down your back.
Muscles rippling and relaxed.

You awaken and the first action you take
Is to hold me in your arms and kiss me.
You love me.
My heart beats differently when you are around.

I just know that when you are with me
I feel as if no worries exist...
I can do anything, tell you anything
and you will still be there for me.

Each time I see you
I want to be in your arms
Remind you of my love for you
And always be forever yours.

To Love A Man

To really love a man
It is to to understand him
I read his heart.
For written were many fears, doubts, insecurities
That he has walled up and hidden.
So the world will think he is strong.

His entire being is poured into the thought
Your strength and to truly love.
Respect, attention, honor…and me.

I dream your dreams, wish your wishes and speak your promises
In dark skies, you light up my world.
Making us a force of ambition.

Your voice, your soul, your mind, and your lips,
Will all join with your hands softly and tenderly
Holding me, erasing all my heartaches and worries.

To truly love you
For no one could ever try
For only when you see in me what I desire from you

Your love, forever yours.

An Open Letter

I'd like to write about me in the plainest words,or better yet, not utilize a human tongue at all.

For words are seldom meaningful and only sketch where they should strive to care and thoughtfully describe the detailed truths and hidden lies.

Yet still I wish to write of me; explain, in detailed sketches things I do not understand nor ever hope to have explained.

Consider this an open letter; friend to friend, from fool to fools, a message to the wind:

Were I to tell you of myself in person, not in written word. I'd joke, tell excerpts of my life and never show the storm inside.

This storm, so meagrely describedby all I'll ever do or say is source of what goes on in me of motion, movement, peace and strife.

It leads me from without within me and lets me dream the world outside with waking eyes and fully conscious paints the ways in front of me.

In some ways I am good and righteous or at least prefer to be shown other situations you would surely break your ties with me.

I've often lied and never killed. I cannot break this habit and likewise I get down at least a week or two a year.

But still I pray to god of men if only to my own and fear the devils, hastily described by words of them.

I'm not much use for talking with or entertaining strangers; have my fears and prejudice both based on facts and not.

I tend to talk for hours and days if I find any point to start and yet tend not to talk at all for even longer terms if not.

Yours dearly, the writer, who feels that an ending to this special letter would somehow be wrong, but whose limited lifetime prevents her from adding more details to maps of her mind like this.