I had to get this off my chest

Poor timing is everything. I wrote this on Friday afernoon. Turns out a wee bit too late.

Exposed
Dark eyes, a richness of depth, are a mystery,
a well of her soul not yet open to him.

They dance around the edges, intimate,
and yet he fails for the words to initiate,
the series of useful stories that explain her.

Her beauty is strength, a vulnerability beneath,
the tenderness he longs to grasp fully, complete.

They close in contact, he breathes the scent that is her,
and only thinks the compliments that flood his consciousness,
the very ones she so longs to hear, those little cherished nothings.

In her wit a wickedness, like a secret revealed,
and he thinks of prompts that allow the cunning to burble.

They apart are fierce, independent, self-sufficient,
made this way through terms and conditions of others,
yet together, they grope for meaning in being so exposed.

Her flesh is power, a sonnet that is made into the physical,
and he finds in her movement a hunger never fulfilled.

His heart is an open page; blank space to scribble her everythings.