Johanna

Of all the women to implore my sight,

Yours is not the face of serenity.

It's not like the dawn that wades gently 

Across my pillow’s thread, fair and light 

And eager to kiss my cheek.

Yet it’s similar to silk in that

It doesn't reject the creases and folds,

Cut and carved canyons,

Like the ones below your eyes.

Your tired eyes.

Your brown eyes.

Eyes that mimic a dark roast.

The kind that graciously fills a cup

In morning light.

Coincidentally my favorite time to see you. 

When sleepy light shines down

Emphasizing the dips and divots 

Of your lips, illuminating their shape.

And I will not condemn the sun

For the kisses that it takes,

Given the chance to lurk upon your lips,

To linger tender and whole

Below your exhaled breath,

I too, would grab it,

And hold it.

The way your face holds me.

In those eyes. 

Those brown eyes.