Romance is not about buying things.
Instead, it’s more of doing,
And the emotion two can bring
With just Being.
It’s a gentle caress;
A compliment in earnest.
A held hand’s power.
A plucked wildflower.
An opened door.
Sticky note poems on a mirror.
A breath on her back
Under the shining full moon,
To softly stir her, but not awake,
From her deep slumber too soon.
Just enough
To let her feel loved,
And safe, and so the protected her,
Sleeps on, knowing she is two, together.
How does it come to this?
Such tenderness and romantic bliss?
Decades of desire
fuel the fire
long smothered
but at last uncovered
and, given fresh breath,
roars to life, from near death.
And to her invited
to fan the flame,
poetic romance, now requited,
will never be the same.