Here, upon this doorstep, her cliff stands at the edge of me.
Her ocean laps against my rocks and questions, prods and dives within me.
No. No questions, but answers unrevealed, clues laid invisible
     to my foggy eyes.
To turn around and run from shadows or brave the wild and brilliant chasm
     her kisses tell of.
Her kiss says no, then yes, then no then no again.
And yes.
Says yes in violet with starlight flashing, says yes and yes again.
Like light snow on a lazy day, I am sick with the inadequacy of it.
What I need, what I want is more.

Much more.
More snow on the ground, on the rooftops, on the balconies.
More snow on the cars, on the treetops on the sanctuaries
     of those who would like nothing more than more snow.
More kisses on my lips, on my eyes, on my arms.
On my soul which would like nothing more
     than to roll on the waves of her kisses.

Her kisses.
Upon such thoughts I grow weak, then strong, then high then low,
Then sick with the vision of those sweet offerings presented to another.
She is another's.
A possession to some dimwitted dullard who cannot reach her.
But her presence paces proudly above meager attempts at possession.
Her beauty belongs to that which is beyond what most can see.
So with pure heart and exalted spirit I elevate my caring.
I stretch my lips and eyes and arms and soul toward her effervescent laughter.
I jump and I scream and I shout her name with a note, or a poem, or a song.
Or a comment about hairstyles.

About weather, about nothing, about everything.
About little things that are everything.
About times so short. About chances so slim, and wet and sticky -
that cling like weathered vines to abandoned castles.
But castles are life to a king and a queen.
And vines can be cut, and arranged, and laid end to end,
to climb up, or down, the most treacherous cliffs.