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Worth Waiting For
Laced with prairie dreams,
Her hair is like the silken strands of a song
Reaching its roots from her scalp
As he holds her, the locks brush against his face:
Thunderbolts of electric infatuation.
Eyes glinting blue
Green
Silver.
Hearts poured like cold lemonade into fragile glass bottles.
His love is a shimmer upon her skin, and the daylight clenched in her fists.
Her love is an ember within his irises and the arc of his bones.
They whisper to each other a patchwork quilt of their tenderness
But don’t put stitches in their hearts:
Those they leave open.
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