CB (11-4-93 / )


Beauty is in the hand by which my lover writes;
it is the way by which his eyes convey his might.
It is the grace of how he articulates his speech;
it is measured by the sure depths his heart can reach.

His heart is pure when he lets me see him cry;
his heart is pure by the innocence of his eyes.
As white as the color of his skin,
From his heart love has filled mine in

The feelings I see are true in word,
the boundaries once set are beginning to blur
Inside the heat rushes through my veins
that cannot be cooled by snow or rain

My life is changing through his eys
New feelings bubble and arise
Through dark and gloom he sees me to the rim
A right and just lion is born in him.

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