Memoirs Of A Nightingale (P.40) Poem by Phoebe Lichten

The eyes speak a language of their own
A secret script whispered to those who listen
And so I pay such careful attention
To the subtle green glisten as they speak

The hazel hue spoke strong today
As my lips parted speaking words unsure
Grasping at the sounds that fell
As I placed my hand upon the shelf

My tiny fingers captured his stare
Rewinding the clock to a moment past
In his mind it rests hidden there
But the placement so delicate brings him back

He remembers the soft touch past
The gentle way I placed my hand
Upon his back, igniting the signal in his spine
As the flames began their dance

I notice his glance
Its sharp intensity pulls at my core
Filling my body with a sudden warmth
Remembering his eyes, I yearn for more