Intrepid

My lips on yours feels like a homecoming.  You kiss me softly, tentatively.  It's magical--like the sunny yellow faces of the crocuses peering out from recently softened soil quietly announcing spring.  Gently you show me how you feel without words, without sound, although I can hear your heart beating strongly beneath your jacket.

You run your hands through my hair and tuck it neatly behind my ears.  You take my hand as we walk along the path looking for more signs of life, signs of spring.  We stop and you point to the geese pecking bugs from the ground.  I smile at them, but mostly at you.

This is what I enjoy best about you so far—this gentleness, this attentiveness.  Little things don’t escape your notice—like how I get hungry at 3:30 and a salad magically appears on my desk or how I drink some tea before the ride home, and you bring a mug to me.  With just a wink you’re off to squelch fires and solve problems.  Around you I feel significant, and this makes me very nervous.

You believe in me—few people do, and that still bothers me, but it shouldn’t.

Because of you I should be intrepid.

I’m learning; continue to teach me, please.