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I told him in a trembling voice
against the wind,
I was afraid to look down,
afraid to fall.
He put a finger to his lips
to shush me
and stretched out his wings.

He karate-chopped
all my other fears
after that,
night after night
surprising me with dishes
of sugar-spiced ambrosia
and savory delight.

He took the heart
that’s been left out in a storm
and dressed it up
in Chinese silk and organdy,
made it presentable enough
to be reintroduced to the sun.

Standing upright,
his passion towered over
my five feet, three inches
of expectations,
blocking ultraviolet qualms
and casting purple shadows
where I might seek shelter
and be comfortable again
in my skin.

He kisses me on the forehead
and bathes with me
in a warm tub overflowing
with lavender dreams,
holds up a wineglass to my lips
that I might sip Chardonnay
and maraschino cherries
of the everlasting
straight from the source.

He keeps the Sahara
delicately packed
inside an hourglass
and uses it as paperweight
for free pages of poetry
and owns the Andromeda galaxy
hanging all its stars
from the canopy
of the four-poster bed
where he lays me down
and loves me to sleep.