You have the loveliest eyes I have ever known — I want them to read me for days. Your gaze is a prefix to the knots in my stomach; I often want to hold your hand mid-sentence. You are filled with warmth and I am trying to make my vessel fire-proof to contain it all. This may not have been the passion I've always desired (you do not beget tumultuous paroxysm ... ok sometimes) but it is the steady calm I've received: tucked so neatly in my back pocket there is nothing I can do but provide it a home.
So here I am. Open, for you.
(I miss you even through the nights, I miss you through the eight-hour separations, I miss you through the spaces between my fingers and the air between the spaces.)