I pull out towels,/
still damp, and catch her sweet scent./
My tear’d moisture flows.
OR
I pull out towels,/
still damp. I catch her sweet scent and/
add my tear’d moisture.
Being with you is/
not a gift taken from you, /
but a gift I give.
Could she,
with walls built high
and deep
open a small door
to her keep
and let me
in?
What does she fear?
What holds her back?
That I’ll get too near?
Place her heart under attack?
Perhaps, but she should know this:
All pain
is worth that gain.
and that risk.
She sometimes feels
I exist to romance her.
But what if I’m what’s real,
and simply God’s answer?