Knowing

When she has nothing to dwell on, she tells how she cannot stop thinking about how the beauty of the slightest recollection gives glimpses into his distant, hidden heart and mind.

And how the thoughts that emanate from him might, so easily, open her right up, even if she has closed herself with fingers and palms over her face.

She does not want to lock him out forever: she is like the folded petals of a night time flower, waiting for the consciousness of dawn and the first glimmer of light in the morning sky.

And she knows, instinctively, that he will open her up petal by petal, as the spring must inevitably open up to summer.  

Those skillful and mysterious touches will reach out to her as if she were the first, the last and the only rose of the season.

He does not know what it is about him that opens her up; but, there is something within him that understands the voice and the caresses needed by those hidden eyes of hers.

And he knows that each of his murmurs and instructions must be finer than each of those seasonal roses.

And, yet, It must last.  The tone must be firmer than the stems and more robust than the thorns that would protect each of those roses through the season and beyond.

Nobody and nothing could be so fine and so firm: so soft and so strong: neither the warm summer sun on her face; nor the cooling breeze against her cheek.

And not even, the rain that trickles from her hair, raindrop by raindrop in a subtle pattern, running over her mind, brushing away platitudes and the possibility of her ever shrugging him away.  

Each drop of rain must be the final straw. Each drop must be the end of ends.  Each drop must be the beginning of beginnings.

Each drop must ensure that her mind can never stop thinking about the pure beauty of being within him and, yet, without him.

And, yet, it must not...who knows?

She does.

She knows only too well.