My miracles!
Why! Who makes much of a miracle?







As to me, I know nothing else but miracles,




whether I can stand watching people leave,






or feeling tears go down my face,









or hearing them as they drive away,







or feeling him giving me his last hug,








or feeling him giving me his last kiss,








or smelling the air as he drives away, or the perfect match goes down the drain,














or the way he talks to me,











or the way he makes me feel when I am around him, or the way my heart beats cause I know he’s there
these, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
the whole referring-yet each distinct, in its place.



To me every hour he smiles is a miracle,






every look that he makes is a miracle,







every laugh that he makes it brings a smile to my face, every day I see him it’s a perfect day,








all these are unspeakably miracles.








To me it’s his smile that is continual miracles;



the smile on his face is a never ending miracles, what stranger miracles are there?