What is this thing;
This aching excitement,
This happy sadness?
What is this fluttering thing;
this need to share,
to be,
to be with?
What is this transient thing
that feels permanent?
This newborn feeling,
that feels like forever?
What is this nervous flimsyness
that couples with almost unspoken security?
What is this wall I have built
only to simply relish your
brick by brick dismantlement
and the way you take such care?

It is fragile as glass.

It is new as the morning dew,
a wolf spider's tentative webbing, laced with autumn droplets,
set to crumble beneath the tips of my fingers.
It is the door, opened,
in the face of the stiff breeze that will slam it shut.
It is the soft folds of heart-flesh that will bruise like summer peaches.
It is the tentative, delicate touch that represents either total security
or total fear.
It is hazel eyes that are not ready
locked in blue eyes that might never be.