These little things like sighs;
like brush of fingertips across waiting skin
send soft breaths to petaled places
where thirst for love feels more innocent
than any blossoming flower we have held.
Lips do more than whisper and when
sweet nothings leave prints
and giggles find a place in awakening thoughts.
We meet in meter keeping perfect time
in intimate increments.
Keep my bare feet on a blooming path
and my hands longing for yours
and stay close enough to touch the tremble
when rains come and feel every tousled strand
as we sway
into tangled versions of us.