In touching base with every word,
       their luminescent white is heard
through poinsettias and all unknown,
       and Friday lights that feel at home.
Cream dares, calling coffee black, in its careful trace,
silhouettes talk poetry, laugh…in touching base.

In saving me, a simple girl,
       could seem familiar in a world
where passing glances, aisle two,
       can mean the same, as breathing you.
Pausing, for a brief refrain, in a verse, we’ll be;
intermingled fingers, that clasp…in saving me.