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She gives me a puzzled smile. “That’s very poetic.”
“I do write poetry, as it happens.”
Her smile spreads. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Not as much as I used to. But I live in a world of science, of physics and technology. I don’t do many creative things. Poetry is my one outlet, I suppose.”
“I didn’t know,” she murmurs. The fairy lights behind the bed flicker, making her eyes shimmer. “Can you remember any you’ve written?”
I lift a strand of her hair and run it through my fingers as I recite.
“Your eyes, your eyes
As dark as stormy gray November skies
Unwrap me like a sweet birthday surprise
Your mouth, your mouth
Plants kisses down my body, heading south
Whisky-warm, as sensual as earth
Your hands, your hands
Communicate your tender thoughts and plans
A language that my body understands
Your voice, your voice
A plangent chime, the resonance of choice
Ties me up in knots with every phrase
You, you
A lighthouse that illuminates the room
Bright as the sun, exotic as the moon.”
She stares at me, mouth open. “You wrote that?”
“I did.”
“Oh my God. It’s beautiful. Who is it about?”
“You, Missie.” I cup her face. “Who else has stormy eyes like you?”
“Me?” She blinks. “When did you write it?”
I debate what to say for a moment. Then eventually I tell her, “A while ago.”
“But you said about her kissing down your body. We hadn’t slept together then.”
“Artistic license.”
Her lips slowly curve up. “You really wrote it about me?”
