Her

When she's talking and jumbles her words; I can see, without seeing, that she blushes. That red. Like rose petals kissed her cheeks And don't dismiss my love sick twistedness because I swear that blush is second, in beauty, only to her eyes. Those eyes twinkle. They're as sweet as sprinkles on a cupcake and even though I don't trust a soul I'd believe any lie she told and when it came time to face the cold My heart could never scold her. I feel her. When she's tired of putting up her fists to fight the world, I will always take over. Every time she collapses to cry on my shoulder, There is nothing I rather do than hold her. Each minute of everyday, I see her. In my dreams, sure, but during the day. When I drink a certain tea because the inhale of breath after a long sip reminds me of a joke she told one morning. One morning when I got to hold her all night. One morning when I sipped this tea and then seconds later, laughed hysterically. She. I. Her and me. We. Yes, her breath is my love sick melody. Her. Me. She and I. See, she's so much more than love. That stuff shared so flippantly. She IS the physical embodiment of sacred love. My girl. My world. And I'd sit in a bittersweet disposition if she left. But if she left happy, how could I deny her the gift of unfettered flight?