A phonecall, or two, the sound of her voice
Is all that I need to make myself smile.
But tears prick my eyes, though not of my choice
As I count the days that make up a while.
A stanza, or two, a verse of my own.
Created by me, inspired by her.
A muse to my spoken, romantic tone,
Blissfully unaware of her own power.
She knows her good points, yet knows them not all,
For she sees not her, but someone less fine.
Less fine than I see, for I see her all
As the wonder she is, in thoughts of mine.
A look and a touch, no more I possess
But the need to be in the heart of a goddess