Watching her read the words he penned,

A feeling of weightlessness in his chest,

As his heart accelerates,

A sense of pride deep in his stomach,

“The golden rays filter through the canopy, beset by the bluest of skies”,

“A warmth upon his face, filling him up, settling him down, giving him hope”,

Little does she know that those words were for her,

The rays her hair, long and sleek and as bright as the midday sun,

The bluest skies her eyes that he gleefully loses himself in,

Her warmth that makes him whole,

“I like this one.”,

Her voice gentle and clear,

“Good, I’m glad.”

She is a poem,

His poem.