You keep books, know permanence,
good grammar, logic, common sense.
As a broker gather chips,
and from the pieces, build your ships.
And one day you sat to write,
You saw what backed those eyes.
It went through you, right then right there.
Got caught off guard, by the saddest stare.
She gives you peace?
Dances like Michael, paints?
Cooks, writes poetry, sometimes faints.
Maybe you just aren't through,
Could she have a hold on you?
