the wind is cold and blustery
but the crook of her arm is warm
and the shadows she speaks
and the light on her face:
the setting of a simmering sun;

the depth of her eyes
when she smiles like i'm 
the only one 
in the world

yes, she speaks softly and painlessly
with purposeful carress
and the snap of the wind by the waterside
is nothing compared to the fire she fans
so flawlessly
in me.

she defends me sharply
and i lose control;
i stumble, melting,
but she holds to me tightly
and the melting is long done.
our games are like skewers.

i feel as though i'd give anything
to never let go of her arm,
to take this moment and freeze it
to abandon all hopes of something better
and live forever 
in our walk by the pier.



bronnie

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