My lips turn sweet as honey

from the thought of you.

I tend to long for your melodious words

even when I’m with you.

And, this silence we sit in

is outrageously beautiful.

Content is the hummingbird outside the window.

Content is your hand with mine.

This pleasure you give me from a simple sentence

is beyond any ideal significance.

You pull, in slumber, at my heart;

which you now own.

Do I call it mine?

Or, do I call it yours?

For all this time:

I’ve never seen heavier days.

Will you push me over the mountains?

To lunge over a field

is to land in the charm

of your hands.

Right back to you.

Content is the hummingbird outside the window.

Content is your hand with mine.