by poetrydiary

Your mind’s touch is gentle, subtle;
reaching through the mirages,
images of my soul,
disturbing its core.

In between the long, slow beats of my heart,
after we part.

Your eyes are quick and bright, speaking
amusement or puzzlement,
to mine, each chance meeting,
across your warm hearth.

Through grey, tired days, my footsteps lead always
back to your door.

Your face, soft, ever welcoming,
fixed in my mind; two spirits,
longing for more space, time
to be and explore.

When next I return, I dream of roses,
and you, alone.

© 2011 Matthew Rhodes