Should you wander into this, my abode
You will see that a shrine for you it is
Where days begin with the joyous lilting of your voice
Where gold and silver embellishments pale in comparison to your delicate face
Where meals whose taste is akin to soggy wooden planks become grand feasts as your playful candor graces the dining room
Where the days’ aches and scratches are healed by you, human apothecary, as you lay your head on my shoulder or grasp my arm, for just a thousandth of a second
Where nights are capped by the vision of you bidding me good night…
Only to be wonderfully awoken by your laughter, diamond, slightly rough around the edges, but with a million million fascinating facets to behold…
For whom this humble shrine is.
Excuse me as I remove the cobwebs from my rusty, crusty poetic muscles and exercise them a bit with the entry above.
I know *you* won't get it unless it was told to you straight to your face but I'm too much of a wimp to do that.