Between the stacks I heard your quiet sigh. I in Brontë, while you, Hemingway. It warmed me that I know you so. A whispered breathe, invisibly across a room Is like a fingerprint of your soul. Your presence is suffocating. Your absence unbearable. When you forget me, I die. When you long for me I am bigger than the world. Flowers and old books fill the hours tonight, Twenty four flickering frames per second With you in my arms. The music serenades a pathway back to you in my heart. The cold night air bare upon you while the church bell tolled, chill-stippled skin and catched gasps. The taste sweet and salty and wonderful making the rest of reality melt away like forgotten lore while only you and I exist, you forget your shy timidity, replaced with glory and splendor. Your breath quiet, your breath loud, breath slow, breath fast, hitched or tranquil, angry or sad, it is the melody of your soul. How can I love someone more than you, they with all their pomp and ceremony and shine and facade, are not you. This existence, verse after verse, the universe itself cannot contain more than one spirit like yours.
