19 Marisol Tucker Hermans I see her brown eyes, umber as an ironbark forest. I wander there, no escape no need to. Here I could pitch my tent, roll out my sleeping bag and live. Water runs just a few yards away. Sometimes I sit cross legged and watch it swell. This stream, a gentle landmark just above her chin. The delicate, subtle curves of her lips as they creep into a smile the only spark I need to light a campfire, beside which I sleep. Beyond my bedroll, beyond my tent deeper she lets me in guiding me along her trails, holding my hand. She leads me to a cave it takes weeks to get there. She points and says, there’s monsters in there. Some I’ve slain and some who slay me. I look back. Her eyes dart away, her lips part and close. She lets go of my hand I sense I’m not the first. Her arms wrap around her torso a one-person hug. A rivulet winds its way down her cheek, she thinks I won’t like what I see, maybe I’ll break camp and leave. I pull her in close, her heart mere inches from mine, our lips almost touching, Her breath quivers. So do I. Her eyes peek at mine. I say, my cave’s got monsters too. Some I’ve slain and some who slay me. I blink, dewdrops down my face. I tell her: I see your eyes umber as an ironbark forest I see your river as it gently swells I see the trails we’ve walked together I see the cave and the monsters inside. All of you is beautiful.
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