The very first time
we were together again,
I wanted it to be different,
special, a night to remember.
I wore only white lace and pearls
and the scent of bananas
(his favorite flavor).
As he made me his once again,
I came close to crying.
I had missed his touch,
the closeness of our bodies
dancing in the candlelight.
We were meant to be as one.
Even now, as I allow myself
to write love poems again,
to ponder the perfect words
to describe my feelings,
I look up and notice
the pink and periwinkle
sunset outside my window,
and a little red bird
right outside my French doors,
peering in and watching
me write as my heart
catches in my throat.
I don't know if it's a
coincidence or not,
but I can't take my eyes
off of the little bird.
I hold my breath afraid
to move, afraid to dream,
but knowing that I
should never stop
writing love poems
about him again.