When I stumbled upon your heart, I
peeled away the petals that encased
it and caught the scent of something
beautiful, something that had
been left to sleep
centuries within the garden
of your chest, between the
willow and her mossy guardian.
The flower's silken flesh longed
for the coarseness of my
wandering fingers, stamen reaching
up to pull me deeper into
the resonating chambers it was
composed, to feel its pulsing
as it enveloped me and
tucked me down and away and
into its warmth.
I used to be a wanderer, a
man unbound, but unknown,
collecting the desert sands and
the salt of the oceans.
I traveled great distances,
looking for nothing, expecting
only that the sun be pulled
from its rest in the East
and finally sink again into the
snow-kissed mountains of the West.
When I stumbled upon your heart,
I was not ready, but you were patient,
and you were kind, and gently you
washed the grime from my hands and
the oil from my hair and put
the softest of lips to my head
and whispered,
"I used to be a wanderer, too,
before I settled here, waiting
for you."