It’s how she walks – elbows tucked, arms out
Ever so slightly, lacking the obviousness that would be odd,
Her legs sweep over the ground, barely touching,
In gentle caress, as though they were her fingers upon my cheek.
It’s how she blinks – the small of her eyelids
Tugging at the bulge to bow
Quickly, so I would not long for her eyes,
Like a bird flapping wings upward, with the calm stretch
Of it gliding down to its perch.
It’s how she smiles – like Moses parting the sea,
Only there’s two redder ones instead, the brightness of hot metal,
Malleable in joy, a cool sea on a hot day when they kiss,
Lukewarm and pleasant in feeling, but intense in emotion.
It’s how she gets angry – the curvature of her nostrils flare
With the ice in her stare; this too is hot yet cold.
It immerses in an undying love so fertile
Trees with high canopies have grown.
It’s how her hand feels in mine – the electricity chased by a quaint calmness,
Like a dog and its tail,
An ecstatic dynamism of which neither tires;
It pulls at my love so fiercely, I worry it will split,
And so it does, but yields more every time.
Why I love her – the question raises too many answers,
A million today, yet more tomorrow.
A barrel always at the brim, exhausting to measure yet never exhausted,
A simple answer prompts a smile upon my lips –
I love her because I do, and I am lucky she does too.
The photograph, titled the Secret Place, is taken from Alena Aenami’s website and portfolio: ArtStation